


We'll Always Have Paris, Book III

by ProfessorFrankly



Series: We'll Always Have Paris [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFrankly/pseuds/ProfessorFrankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene's past comes back to haunt her new marriage to Sherlock. The newlyweds try to deal while John gets closer to Mary and--well, there is a baby on the way, remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Always Have Paris, Book III

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for the positive feedback. I hope you like the conclusion of the first trilogy in this series. This one has some relatively explicit discussion of Irene's past as a dominatrix, so be warned. Also, a difficult pregnancy and consequences. I researched the pregnancy stuff, but I'm not an MD, so if I messed anything up, mea culpa.
> 
> On with the show ...

The Rocking Cradle  
  
Irene stretched in the sun, allowing it to warm her skin and rounded belly as Sherlock poured oil into his hands and rubbed it over her.   
  
“That feels nice,” she mumbled, nearly asleep.  
  
“You’ll be brown as a nut before this vacation is over,” Sherlock warned, continuing to rub the oil into the skin of her thighs, then laid his hands on her belly, leaning over to kiss the bump there before he moved his oiled hands to her breasts and shoulders.  
  
“I love that the beaches in St. Tropez allow me to go topless without comment at all. The sun feels so amazing,” Irene practically purred.   
Sherlock smiled at her obvious joy. He wore plain red bathing shorts, but his pale skin had warmed appreciably in the last week they’d spent in the south of France.  
They’d taken a month’s honeymoon after their New Year’s Day wedding, and both thought it well-earned. They’d taken down the Moriarty network, saved John from an assassin, rescued Mary Morstan from murderous ruffians, and pulled off a lovely wedding, all in just over six months.  
The first two weeks were spent in Paris, where they not only spent a great deal of time in bed, but they also packed up and put things in order. The flat would be rented out through a service, because Irene was moving back to London with Sherlock. The Holmes would be living at 221B Baker Street when they returned, and they would be redecorating to get ready for the baby they expected in May.   
John Watson and his new fiance, Mary, would be living at her townhouse in North London, so John’s old room would be repurposed as the baby’s room. Irene would be using Mrs. Hudson’s front room as her office for sex therapy sessions, and Sherlock would continue to keep his own private lab in the basement flat.  
All in all, it worked.   
Having arranged all these things in Paris and London, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had opted to spend a further two weeks in the south of France, soaking up the sun. Odds were that once the baby arrived, they’d not have such an opportunity for a while. Sherlock couldn’t honestly remember ever being on holiday, and Irene had had to talk him into one. At 22 weeks, they were more than half-way to baby’s arrival, and she wanted a little fun-in-the-sun time with her new husband before they went back to the mysteries that plagued Baker Street.  
“It seems we have the beach to ourselves this morning,” Sherlock observed. He glanced down at her with mischief in his face. “Might I oil anything else for you, Woman?”  
“Mmmmmmm...I’m getting a bit large to flip onto my belly, or I’d have you give me a complete rubdown,” Irene said ruefully.   
“Didn’t think of that,” Sherlock admitted. “I had a little something else in mind.”  
“Might have to go back to the suite for that,” Irene suggested. “I’m feeling a little flushed, anyway.”  
Sherlock grinned, leaned down to kiss her, then stood up, feeling the white sand between his toes. For a change, the detective looked healthy, tanned, and well-fed. Marriage obviously agreed with him.  
And with her. Irene picked up her bikini top, and she held her hand out to Sherlock. “I actually need your help to get off the ground here, Sherlock.”  
Obligingly, he reached down and lifted her up from under her arms, rather than just taking her hand. His were still too oily to have done much good. They stood together for a second, her oiled breast pressed against his naked chest. He kissed her again, adding a taste of tongue and nibbling on her lips. She nibbled back, then broke it off. “Help me with my top, will you please?”  
He tied it around her neck, picked up their blanket, and took her hand. They walked up to the villa on the beach and let themselves into their suite. Blessedly cool air assaulted them as they walked in, and Irene gave a little shiver before finding herself airborne in the arms of her husband.  
She giggled wildly as he swept her off her feet and carried her through to their bedroom, depositing her on the bed and--oops!--somehow making sure she lost her top on the way.  
“We’re leaving tonight,” Sherlock reminded her. “We only have a limited time to enjoy the last minutes of our honeymoon.”  
“Well, then,” Irene said smugly. “I guess you’ll have to do what you need to do.”  
“I hoped you’d say that.”   
…  
They left France at 10 p.m., and arrived back in the Baker Street flat at 3 a.m. Sherlock left their bags on the sidewalk, unlocked the front door, then swept a sleepy Irene up to carry her over the threshold. “Tradition, right?”   
She smiled at him, and kissed him as he set her down in the front hall. “Absolutely.” She yawned. “I’ll go let us in, shall I?”  
“I’ll get the bags,” Sherlock said. He went back outside, and Irene headed up the stairs to the second floor. He was just bringing the bags into the foyer when he heard Irene scream, a short, panicked sound that was cut off.  
Sherlock got to the flat so fast he didn’t register how he’d gotten there. She was struggling with a masked intruder who had a knife to her throat. Sherlock didn’t even have his revolver; his mind whizzed with thoughts and possibilities.  
“You’ll want to remove that knife from my wife’s throat,” Sherlock said conversationally.   
“This bitch? She’s nothing. I could cut her throat right now without a second thought.”  
“What do you want?”  
“I want the photographs.”  
Sherlock looked at the intruder coolly. “What photographs?”  
“You say this is your wife? I say this is a black-hearted bitch who doesn’t know what’s good for her. She’s got something I want.”  
That damn phone. How did they figure out she was alive? Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. “What makes you say that? You don’t even know her.”  
The intruder snorted. “I probably know her better than you do.”  
Sherlock’s eyes fired, and Irene felt sick, faint.  
“As it happens, I have all her photographs,” Sherlock said calmly. “Let her go, and I’ll lead you do them.”   
“What guarantee do I have that you’ll do that if I let her go?”  
“You don’t. But I can tell you that they’re not available at this time of the night. They’re in a safety deposit box. If you want them, you’ll have to wait until morning. Let her go, and come back in the morning. I’ll take you myself.” Sherlock paused. “You’re not going to get a better offer. And the police are on their way right now.”  
The intruder abruptly shoved Irene away, and she fell to the floor, silent. Sherlock waited for the intruder to come next to him, then stomped on his instep, knocked the knife out of his hand, hit him in the belly, smashed his nose in with an upper-cut, and threw him down the stairs. He dialed emergency as he ran into Irene, checking her pulse. Thready. “Yes, we had an intruder. He’s unconscious at the bottom of our stairs, but he’s scared my wife rather badly. We need police and an ambulance. Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street.”  
He put the phone on speaker and set it on the table, turning back to Irene. She was unconscious. He laid a hand on her forehead, feeling the light sheen of sweat. “Irene, sweetheart, wake up. It’s all right, really. Irene?” Sherlock wished for John, but he’d moved in with Mary while they were gone. He raced to their bathroom and wet a cloth with cold water. Moving back to Irene, he gently bathed her temples and wrists. Her eyes fluttered. Encouraged, he bathed her face, and she came to with a gasp.   
“Sherlock?” She whispered it, then gripped her belly. “Oh, God, Sherlock. It hurts.”  
Too early, he thought. Way too early. He laid a hand on her baby bump and felt the muscles tensed there. Oh, shit. “I’m calling John to meet us at the hospital, Irene. See, here the ambulance is now.” Sherlock heard Lestrade’s thunderous voice at the hall entrance. “Up here, Lestrade.” Sherlock ended the call on his phone and called John instead.  
John picked up first ring, “Yes.”  
“John, can you meet us at Regions Hospital?” Sherlock asked. “We’ve had an intruder, Irene’s having some sort of contraction, she fainted. Lestrade is here, we’ve got an ambulance. Just help, please.”  
“On my way.”  
The friends clicked off, and Sherlock returned his attention to Irene as Lestrade strode into the room. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock. What happened?”  
Sherlock briefed him. “I imagine you could charge me with assault, but I hope you won’t. He had a knife to her throat, Lestrade, and she’s having contractions now and John’s not here and I want to kill him.”  
“The intruder, not John, I take it?”  
“Of course the intruder,” Sherlock snapped.  
Irene stirred under his hand. He was massaging her belly, and the muscles there were relaxing. She nearly cried in relief, and Sherlock relaxed only marginally. “How’s that, Woman?”  
“Better, better,” she whispered. “My throat’s sore, though.”  
Lestrade flipped on a light, and they both saw it--the drip of blood from a long cut on her throat. Sherlock looked closely at it, relieved that the cut was shallow. He took his scarf off and blotted the cut. “I’m afraid it’s hospital for you.”  
The paramedics made their way up the stairs with the gurney, and carefully loaded Irene onto it. They strapped her in, replacing Sherlock’s scarf with clean gauze at her neck.    
“I’ll lock up,” Lestrade told Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson’s away at her sister’s; I checked.”  
“John’s meeting us at the hospital,” Sherlock said.  
“Right. Good luck, Sherlock. We’ll take care of this for you.”  
They loaded Irene into the ambulance, and Sherlock got in with her, holding her hand. They sped away to Regions Hospital.  
Irene went in and out of consciousness. Sherlock watched the paramedics as they grimly strapped monitors on her and on the belly, watching tapes and equipment. The baby’s heart beat seemed to be fine and steady, but hers...Sherlock couldn’t read the pattern on the tape. Again he wished for John, who could tell him at a glance what was going on with Irene’s heart. The paramedics were more concerned with that than they were with the cut on her throat, which was not bleeding as heavily as it had been. It had not been deep enough to cut her jugular, a minor blessing.  
As they pulled up to the emergency bay at Regions, Sherlock was relieved to see John, clad in the first clothes that had come to hand and clearly unwashed and uncombed. As the doors opened, Sherlock hopped down, and they unloaded Irene. “John, good to see you. See to her, will you please?”  
“I’m on it,” John said, and followed the paramedics in. Sherlock heard John identify himself as a doctor as the bay doors closed behind him. Sherlock stood, silently, wondering what he could or should do next.   
His phone beeped. Text from Mycroft. All right? Saw the commotion.  
Sherlock tensed, then answered. Not all right. May not ever be all right. Could use help. Regions. SH  
“Alone was so much easier,” Sherlock muttered. And strode in through the doors himself to find out what was happening with his wife.  
…  
John looked at the tape and swore. The increased stress on Irene’s body had caused her heart to go tachycardic. They’d have to bring that under control. The contraction that Sherlock had reported was worrying, but they had a monitor on the baby and he/she was fine. No other contractions had been reported. The slice across her neck infuriated John, who knew that Sherlock would be even more furious. It crossed John’s mind that Sherlock might already have had a measure of satisfaction. He certainly hoped so.  
John saw Irene’s eyes flutter open again, and he read the panic in them. He leaned over. “The baby is fine. Sherlock is fine. We’re seeing to you, but I think you’ll be fine, too. You’re at Regions. As soon as we get your heart rate under control and get you into a room, we’ll let Sherlock in to see you too. If he doesn’t manage to get himself in here first.”  
She smiled, and whispered, “Thanks.”  
“Irene?” The staff OB/GYN leaned over her, too. “How many weeks into the pregnancy are you?”  
John knew that one. “Her throat’s been cut, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m a close family friend and a doctor. She’s at 22 weeks as of today.”  
“Well and along, then, that’s good,” the OB/GYN looked directly at Irene as he talked. “We’re going to want to do an ultrasound when you’re stable, but the baby’s heart is beating steadily, and you’re not contracting. I don’t think the baby is in any immediate danger, as long as we can get your heart rate down. Dr. Watson’s supervising, but we’ve got a cardiologist on her way in, too. It will be fine, Mrs. Holmes.”  
She nodded, slightly, and allowed her eyes to close. Then they flew open, and she looked at John, mouthing, “Tell Sherlock.”  
He nodded. “I’ll be back. I’ll need to go and inform Mr. Holmes of her status before he charges in here and demands it himself.”  
“Yeah, we don’t need that,” one of the nurses muttered. Apparently, she knew of Sherlock. John grinned at Irene as he left in search of his best friend.   
Sherlock was sitting still as a stone in a chair by the nurses station. Not a good sign, John thought. He was well past mania and into self-recrimination.   
“Right, Sherlock.” John drew up a chair. “The baby is absolutely fine. Heart rate is steady, there are no contractions, and a quick feel told the OB/GYN on staff that the little person is holding its own in there. The stress of the assault caused Irene’s heart to go tachycardic, which means it was beating irregularly and quickly. We’ve got a cardiologist coming in, but I’ve started her already on meds designed to slow and regulate her heart. We’re being choosy about the meds we use, because we want ones that won’t affect the baby, but there’s every reason to believe they’ll work. We’re bandaging her throat. The cut wasn’t deep, and it won’t require stitches, but it will likely cause her pain for a while. She’s not talking well. It didn’t look as though the larynx was touched, but I suspect it’s just painful to stretch against the cut. I’m having her admitted. I’ll expect her to be here for a few days while we get the heart issue straightened out. Oh, and as soon as she’s in a room, which should be shortly, they’re going to perform an ultrasound to take a good look at the baby. You’ll want to be there for that.”  
Sherlock took a deep breath, then put his head in his hands. “Why didn’t I go up first?” He muttered it. “I was too distracted by all this honeymoon business, carrying her over the threshold, trying to get our bags so she wouldn’t try carrying them. I sent her up by herself. I should know better. There’s always something going on at 221B.”  
“Not always, Sherlock,” John said. “I remember several days where you were simply bored.”  
But Sherlock would not be consoled. “I’m not doing a very good job of protecting them, here, am I?”  
“How could you have predicted an intruder would be in your flat on your return from a honeymoon?” John asked. “You’ve been gone a month. You’ve no cases on. It’s probably just random bad luck.”  
“But it’s not,” Sherlock said grimly. “The intruder wanted photographs from Irene. Probably some that were on the camera phone. How did he know she was alive, much less that she lived at 221B and would be returning home at 3 a.m.? How did he get into the flat? We need much better security if we’re going to live there.” He drew another deep breath. “Her blood, John, on this scarf.” Sherlock drew it out of his pocket and thrust it at him. “How could I have let this happen?”  
“Slow down, Sherlock.” John leaned forward and grasped Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’ve lined up all the right questions. So, now you see that she’s all right and safe here, and then go and answer them, right? I’ll help.”  
“I knew I could count on you, John, for your wisdom and your help.”  
A nurse approached. “Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?”  
Sherlock jumped up. “Yes?”  
“We’ve got Mrs. Holmes in a private room on the secured wing of the third floor. Orders from someone at NHS. I’ll show you. They’ll be prepping her for an ultrasound right now, so I hope you’re interested in seeing your baby.” The nurse smiled at him, and gestured him forward.  
They took an elevator. Accessing the third floor required a key card, and as the door opened, Sherlock saw that the floor had a posh look about it. It was quiet, for one, the decor understated but lovely. A second key card allowed them access to the patient wing, and a third key card allowed them access to Irene’s room.  
“You’ll need a nurse with these security keys to get up here, Mr. Holmes. You might want to arrange your visits, or simply stay here until she’s released. We can set up a cot for you in her room.” The nurse opened the door, and Sherlock saw his wife, her throat bandaged, lying still in a hospital bed. She was wearing a horrible hospital gown--good god, could they make them less horrible?--and her eyes were closed. The heart monitors attached to her beeped steadily.   
John took a look at the monitors. “Oh, good. Her heart rate has stabilized in the normal range, and her blood pressure is steady. Excellent. So’s the baby.”  
Sherlock barely heard him as he made his way to Irene, and he took her hand. She opened her eyes, and smiled reassuringly at him. She squeezed his hand. He kissed her forehead.  
Another nurse bustled in with an ultrasound cart. “Here we are. Dr. Christine is on her way up right now to check on you and show you the baby.”  
“Christine’s coming?” Sherlock looked surprised.  
“Standard, Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes is a high-risk patient; they’ll have a flag on her file when she arrives at the hospital to contact her doctor. With this degree of incident, being that Christine is a very good doctor, she’d have come in automatically.” John paused. “I did.”  
Sherlock said nothing, but continued to hold Irene’s hand and look into her eyes. John left him to it, studying the monitors and watching the tech set up the cart until Christine walked in.  
“Oh, dear, Irene,” Christine said, coming immediately toward her. “What a shock for you to come home to!”  
Irene’s eyes filled, and Sherlock reached for a tissue on the bedside table. He gently wiped her eyes and kissed her lightly. “It was a shock for both of us, Christine.”  
“Well, and here I’m giving you a silver lining,” Christine replied, pulling out a tube of gel and a wand. “You’ll get to see baby pictures a full two weeks before we had the regular ultrasound scheduled. Lights, Nan. Sherlock, will you pull her sheet down and her top up so that we can see the belly?”  
He complied, baring Irene’s skin. His jaw tightened when he saw the bruises that were forming along her left hip, probably from the fall, but, again, he said nothing. Irene reached for his hand again, and squeezed it as Christine applied the gel to her belly and pressed the wand to it.  
“You’ve grown quite a bit in the last four weeks, little guy,” Christine murmured, calling out numbers to Nan, who put them into the computer. “Let’s take a look, here.”  
She showed Sherlock and Irene the baby’s face and body, pointing out the hands and feet. Christine looked for tears or abnormalities in the uterine wall, and found none. She saw slight bruising on the left side. “This was the cause of the contraction you reported, Sherlock. She hit the floor hard enough to cause a bruise and make the uterine wall contract here. We’ll want to track that bruise, Irene. You’re going to need to stay in bed until it’s gone.”  
She moved the wand to get a better view of the baby’s front, and she paused. “Do you want to know the sex of your baby? Because I’ve got a very good view here. If you don’t, I’ll just record this and move on.”  
Irene looked at Sherlock questioningly. He smiled back at her. “Why wait? You’ll want to go shopping, won’t you?” Irene nodded and smiled her sparkling smile.  
“There’s your answer, doctor. Is it a wee Hamish?”  
“Hamish? Really?” Christine shook her head. “Poor child.”  
“Hey!” John said. “That’s my middle name.”  
Christine laughed. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, it looks like Hamish is out as a name, because you’re having a girl.”  
“I win, Irene.” Sherlock smirked at her, and looked at the picture of their daughter on the screen. “She’s beautiful.”  
Irene touched his arm and motioned him down to her face. “We both win,” she said, almost inaudibly.  
“Nan, let’s print a picture of this one so there’s proof,” Christine directed. She continued with her examination, and drew the wand down and to the right. She pointed to something on the screen. “Irene’s seen this before, she told me, but it’s much more clear now that the uterus has grown somewhat. This is the scarring we’ve been concerned about.”  
Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at, but John knew. “Jeez,” John said.  
At one point, her uterus had been torn in several places toward the right side, and had healed awkwardly. The baby, it appeared, had attached on the left side. It bore watching, because the scars wouldn’t stretch as well as the rest of the uterus would, and the baby might not get enough room to grow in. It could result in placenta previa, or detachment of the baby from the uterine wall before it was fully gestated.  
“What caused that?” John asked the question before he fully realized he knew the answer.  
Irene closed her eyes, and Sherlock clenched his jaw again.  
“Never mind,” John said. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll just deal with what is.”  
“Good policy,” Christine commented. “And so far, so good. Not too stretched, not yet. Ideally, Sherlock, we’ll want her to get to 40 weeks gestation, which will have her due at the end of May. If we can keep her heart rate under control and monitor the uterus for stretching, weekly, we might be able to make it, given the placement of the baby. Now that she’s filled up all that space, I’m going to want to take regular pictures of that scarring, Irene. We’ve got to hope that it stretches just enough. If we make it to 36 weeks, though, we’ll be happy with that.”  
“So, May Day, or thereabouts,” Sherlock commented.  
“Yes, you’ll have a little queen of May, if you’re interested,” Christine said. “Print that picture for the file, too, please, Nan.”  
A knock sounded at the door.  
“Who could that be? With all the security here...”  
John went to the door and opened it. “Mycroft.”  
“Came as soon as I could. Everything all right?”  
“As well as can be expected. I expect Sherlock will fill you in. Meanwhile, come and see a picture of your niece.”  
“Niece!?” Mycroft strode forward and looked at the monitor. “Well, how wonderful. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.”  
Sherlock and Irene shared a sparkling look.   
Mycroft took in the scene. “I gather there was trouble tonight.”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.   
“All’s well with Irene for now, though?”  
“We’ll need to monitor her here for a few days,” Christine said. “She’ll need full bed rest to recover completely. That bruising needs to heal, and we need to monitor her heart and make sure we have her on the right medications before we send her home.”  
“Well, this is as secure a room as I could get for her, Sherlock,” Mycroft said calmly. “She’ll be constantly monitored here, and a short guest list will be enforced. I’ve placed you, me, John, and Mary on that list for the time-being. If you think she’ll want it, I’ll add Mrs. Hudson.”  
“I’m sure she will,” Sherlock said.  
Christine withdrew the wand and handed Sherlock a stack of paper towels. “Here, Sherlock, make yourself useful. John, can I see you a moment?”  
Mycroft retreated to a corner of the room to give them privacy while Sherlock gently cleaned the gel from her belly, and heedless of his brother in the corner, kissed it. Irene’s eyes filled again, and he gently wiped her tears away, pulled her gown down and her blanket up, and kissed her forehead again. “I’ll be leaving with Mycroft and John now. You’re safe here, and I’ll be back later today. I love you. Sleep.”  
She nodded, mouthed “I love you, too,” and closed her eyes.  
…  
Sherlock left Irene’s room in the company of his brother and his best friend, and the great detective felt comforted by their presence. He kept his fury tamped down--it wasn’t time to let it out yet--so he was unaccountably quiet as they made their way down to where Mycroft’s car waited.   
Mycroft gestured them inside, and the three of them sat, John and Mycroft looking worriedly at Sherlock. Every muscle in Sherlock’s body was tense, and he leaned back to steeple.  
Mycroft broke the silence by pulling an electronic key out of his wallet and passing it to Sherlock. “A security key card, authorized for all the entrances. You won’t need the usual escort if you have this. Just don’t lose it.”  
Sherlock took it and stared at it for a minute, then opened his own wallet and placed it inside. He went back to his steeple. John looked at Mycroft for a moment, then cleared his own throat. “She’ll be fine, Sherlock. She’s got the best doctors in the most secure facility she could possibly be in. They’ll both be fine.”  
Sherlock still said nothing.  
“Right,” Mycroft said briskly. “I think I know how it became known that Irene was alive, and I don’t think you’re going to like the answer. In fact, I know you won’t--it’ll have shades of Reichenbach all over it--but...”  
“There was a wedding announcement in one of the papers, wasn’t there?” Sherlock observed. “Mrs. Hudson, maybe? Stamford? Someone who didn’t know we needed to keep Irene’s face and mine out of the press.”  
“In Sunday’s News, actually, in black and white. The hair color can’t fool a black and white camera. It was clearly Irene Adler,” Mycroft continued. “Your intruder, Lestrade informs me, is a former client of your wife’s, a lieutenant in a major criminal organization--not Moriarty’s--who is looking to advance and couldn’t risk that the photographs she had of him would be made public. Of course, we have them, and Irene no longer does, but this man was not to know that. He found your travel plans, broke into 221B, and waited for your return. It’s fortunate that he needed her alive, Sherlock, or you’d likely be planning a funeral.”  
“Mycroft,” John said firmly.  
“I don’t believe in shielding my brother from harsh realities. It’s always best to deal with what is known, rather than the fantasy of what could have been,” Mycroft said, equally firmly.  
Sherlock grunted. “As always, dear brother.”  
John was encouraged by that little bit of communication. “Well, if it’s now known that Irene Adler is alive, what kind of danger is she in?”  
“A ridiculous amount,” Mycroft said. “There will always be someone who believes she has more information than she does, and of course, she’s privy, even without documentation, to sensitive information learned through her former trade. Someone will always want her gone.”  
“Which is why I helped her fake her death and hid her in the first place,” Sherlock said grimly. “Only to place her back in danger through my love for her.”  
“Sherlock, love isn’t wrong,” John said.  
“No, but placing the ones you love in danger is! Didn’t I learn anything from Moriarty but that!” Sherlock shouted, then just as quickly, masked and controlled himself. “We have two choices, it seems.”  
“Oh?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
“Fake her death again and hide her better, or confront her accusers with the evidence she had to stay protected.”  
“Both are dangerous courses, Sherlock, and of course, in the first case, you’d either have to go with her or never see them again. I don’t know if you can manage that.”  
Sherlock grunted again. “Neither do I.”   
“The second course might prove more fruitful, Sherlock, as the contents of her camera phone have been put to good use. There’s very little left that hasn’t been acted on, and those who engaged in criminal or treasonous activity have been prosecuted. She’s safe from them, for the time being. It’s those former clients who don’t want to be discovered who are the real risk.” Mycroft pulled out his phone. “Baker Street has been cleared for possession again, Sherlock.”  
“Take us there, then,” he said. “John, you might want to call Mary and let her know you’ll be gone for the day.”  
“Already taken care of, Sherlock. Mary understands. I’ll text her later,” John said.  
Sherlock rubbed his face and hair all over and said, decisively, “Right.” He turned to Mycroft. “Do you have the rest of the contents of that camera phone?”  
“I do,” Mycroft said. “As I said, there’s nothing left of a criminal nature, just some rather embarrassing things for a few notables. Including your intruder.”  
“Who, if he isn’t dead--I really didn’t care what happened to him once I threw him down the stairs--will be facing charges of breaking and entering, attempted kidnapping, and assault with a deadly weapon.”  
“You threw him down the stairs?”  
“After breaking his balls and nose, of course,” Sherlock said. “He had a knife to my wife’s throat, endangering her life and that of our daughter. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him outright. Seemed like too much to explain.”  
Mycroft was working his phone again. “The man’s alive, barely. He’ll not walk again, though; his spinal cord was severed in the fall.”  
“Fair enough,” Sherlock said. “Much more lasting punishment than death. I’ll take it.”  
“Yes, well, enough of that, I suppose,” Mycroft said. “But yes, Sherlock, we have the contents of the phone, and we’ve identified the clients left on it. I don’t know what good it will do you.”  
“Well, I’m thinking that one through. Can we get duplicates of the phone made?”  
“Ah, I think I see where you’re going with this. Yes. No difficulty with that.”  
John furrowed his brow. “Where is this going?”  
“We’re going to give those former clients what they want--the embarrassing photos. They’ll have what we tell them are the only copies, and have Irene swear affadavits that she’s giving away the only copies she has. Which will be true. Because she hasn’t had them at all in more than a year.” Sherlock steepled again. “We’ll have to track them all down.”  
“I do have the list, Sherlock. It seemed wise.” Mycroft tapped a few more keys on his phone. “I’m sending it to you now.”  
“You can be very useful, brother,” Sherlock said.  
“As can you, Sherlock. We’re on the same side here, don’t forget,” Mycroft said.  
Sherlock gave his brother a half-smile, and as they pulled up to Baker Street, he shook his brother’s hand. “Thanks.” He and John piled out of the car and Mycroft waved his umbrella at them before he sped away.  
Sherlock let them in the front door, and saw that their bags had been taken up, probably by Lestrade. Bloodstains on the floor at the bottom of the stairs testified to the hard fall the intruder had taken. Sherlock ignored it completely as he ran up the stairs. All the doors were locked, and he used his key to let them into the living area.  
Her blood stained the floor here. Sherlock tried to ignore it as he took in the scene, looking for clues as to how the intruder made his way into the flat. The sun was up, now, and he could see where the kitchen window had been jimmied open. Was it really that easy to break into this flat? Sherlock berated himself as he studied all the potential entrances. Security needed to be beefed up before he brought Irene home. When it was just him, John, and his cases, he didn’t really care. He was more than capable of protecting himself.   
But with a wife and daughter... he still had to wrap his head around that one. He was going to have a daughter. A little girl. What did he know about little girls? Except he did know one thing. Anyone who wanted to hurt his girls would have to go through him--and the best security Mycroft’s money could buy.  
“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “We can fix this.”  
Sherlock shook his head at John. “We’ve got to get better security in here. Alarmed windows. Keypad locks on the doors.” Sherlock checked the other windows, saw nothing. “I really wish we had two bedrooms on this floor. It would be easier to keep the baby safe.”   
“Baby monitors, Sherlock,” John said. “Cameras and audio.”  
“Oh, yes.” Sherlock’s face went into a state of arrested development, remembering the hutch in Paris. “I’ll put the Woman in charge of that. She’s brilliant at it. Spent half her life trying to protect herself.”  
John noted Sherlock’s tanned skin looked pale, and there were shadows around his eyes. “When did you last sleep yourself, mate?”  
“Yesterday.”  
“You should get a nap while we’re waiting for information,” John said briskly. “I’ll keep watch out here and phone Mary.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “I doubt I’ll sleep. I don’t when I have a problem to solve, unless the woman’s here. And she’s not.”  
“Give it a shot, anyway,” John suggested, then wandered back into the living area with a sponge from under the sink to scrub the blood off the carpet.   
Sherlock wandered back into his bedroom, noting the bags had been set neatly on the floor at the end of the bed. He hung up his coat, took off his jacket, and lay down. As he’d predicted, however, his brain raced with questions and possibilities. Having Irene safe in hospital with the best security that could be provided by the British government allowed him to compartmentalize her for the time being. But the larger problem of keeping her safe after her discharge threatened. If he could arrange that before she left...  
Well, as Mycroft pointed out, the criminal element on the phone had all been eliminated. What’s left is minor embarrassment, and Irene had been the soul of discretion in her former trade. She’d had to have been. So who else had she angered?  
Probably time to interview his own wife.   
By tacit agreement, Sherlock and Irene had elected to start their relationship without secrets, but not necessarily with all information. Sherlock found it unnecessary to have all the details of her past life, and Irene elected not to share them--part of that necessary discretion, he suspected. He also suspected that she preferred not to remember parts of that other life.   
The stepfather who’d raped her from the time she was small, teaching her that her only value lay in being a sex object.  
The clients who reinforced that perception with every meeting.  
The government officials whose loose lips led to her very big problem, the one he’d helped her out of.  
Moriarty, who knew just where to twist the knife and get her into even more trouble.  
Sherlock closed his eyes to think, wishing for his nicotine patches.   
…  
The blood wasn’t coming out of the carpet. John sat back on his heels. Maybe Mrs. Hudson knew a trick? It surely wasn’t the first time there’d been blood in this carpet.  
John got up and washed out the sponge, then checked on Sherlock. He seemed to be sleeping, but John knew that could disguise serious thinking. Either way, disturbing him wasn’t a good idea.  
He went back to the living area and phoned Mary, who picked up on the first ring.  
“Is everything all right, John?”  
John filled her in, and finished with, “Irene’s sleeping now. She’s at Regions. You’re on the guest list if you’d like to see her later. She’s going to be there for a few days.”  
“Poor Irene. Poor Sherlock. Of course, I’m glad she can be herself again. At any rate, she’s Mrs. Holmes, and I know that’s what she’s wanted. But what a horrible thing to come home to!”  
“Agreed, Mary.” John was silent for a moment. “How is our security?”  
“Fine, John. Basic but sufficient,” Mary said.  
“Right. Well, I know I’m keeping you from your students. I should let you go.”  
Mary sighed. “I’ll be on my way. If you should see or talk to Irene at all today, let her know that I’ll stop by after school. I’ll bring some mystery novels. That ought to help her with the boredom.”  
“That’s my Mary. I love you,” John said.  
“And I love you.”  
…  
Irene woke slowly. Her neck, where it was cut, hurt. Her belly and hip where it had hit the floor at Baker Street hurt. Her chest hurt.   
“Mrs. Holmes?” A female nurse inquired. “Do you require the toilet?”   
Irene looked around for a second and remembered where she was. In hospital. With monitors attached. She looked back at the nurse, and the nametag that said “Ellen,” and nodded.  
“Still hurts to talk?” Ellen asked.  
Irene shrugged. Ellen smiled sympathetically. “Let me help you up. I’ll just loop these monitors up and roll them along with you, and help you to the toilet.” They walked to the attached bathroom, where Ellen waited while Irene used the facilities.  
That taken care of, Ellen helped her back to the bed, fluffing pillows and pulling up the blankets.  
“What time is it?” Irene asked quietly. She found she could talk if she didn’t move much as she did so.  
“It’s just after noon,” Ellen said. “Are you hungry?”  
Irene thought about it for a moment. “Famished, actually.”  
“Let’s find you some food.” Ellen pulled out an in-room hospital menu and handed it to Irene. “You’re to pick from this menu, which is our heart-smart menu.”  
“Tea?” Irene inquired.  
“Yes, we can get you herbal tea.”  
“Raspberry.”  
Ellen smiled. “Perfect for an expectant mother, yes? I’ll order a pot up straightaway while you look through the menu for your breakfast.”  
Irene perused the menu, looking for something that wouldn’t hurt going down by stretching the cut. She settled on ricotta cheese mixed with fruit and a bowl of oatmeal.   
“Good choices,” Ellen commented. “I’ll phone those down, too. Can I get you anything else right now?”  
“No, thanks.” Irene curled up on her right side. “I’ll just wait.”  
A tap at the door signaled Ellen that the tea was ready. She answered it, then took the pot and set it up at Irene’s bedside table. The kitchen had sent up low-sodium biscuits, as well, and Ellen helped Irene sit back up, to dip a biscuit in her tea. The light carb tasted good, and the tea felt wonderful on her abused throat. She sipped slowly, and pondered.  
How on earth had he known she was alive? And why would he think she had the photographs any longer?  
She’d recognized him on sight, of course. One of her more persistent clients, who preferred his recreational scolding with a cat-o-nine tails. He also had become more and more aggressive in their later meetings, wanting to turn the tables on her. Since Irene didn’t play that way--especially with her male clients--she’d instructed Kate to refuse any further appointments with him. This was just before she’d met Sherlock for the first time, and Irene couldn’t think of any better reason to get rid of her male clients than Sherlock.  
The intruder had been nearly psychopathic, Irene thought, and certainly fixated on her. With her death, that fixation had dissipated, but finding her alive? That couldn’t be borne. He didn’t just want the photographs.  
He wanted her.   
Irene thought more deeply. Who else would want to find her now that it apparently was known that she lived?  
Irene assumed that anyone criminal would have been prosecuted already. Mycroft was amazingly efficient. But the lesser knowns, doing nothing illegal, even if photos were embarrassing. How many of those were there?  
She needed her old client list. Her recklessness, her lack of self esteem--well, it had driven her to take risks with some of those clients, who might now want her back.   
They couldn’t have her. That might cause some to want her even more.  
“What have I gotten us into, Sherlock?” She whispered to herself, appalled to find tears forming in her eyes.  
Ellen answered another tap at the door, and opened it to find Sherlock with a tray that contained Irene’s breakfast. “And you are?”  
“Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock said. “I waylaid the dining cart on the way here.”  
Ellen laughed. “Irene, is this someone you know?”  
Irene smiled. “Yes,” she said quietly.  
Sherlock smiled back. “Found your voice again, I see.”  
“One step at a time, Sherlock. I won’t be singing or shouting anytime soon, but if I’m careful, I can make noise,” Irene said, putting her cup back down on the table.   
Ellen bustled over and set up the tray table over Irene’s bed, sitting her up. “I’ll just leave you two. If you need anything, just press the button.”  
Sherlock sat on the edge of her bed, and picked up her spoon. “Shall I feed you?”  
“Too much, Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly. “I’m well enough to feed myself, thank you.”  
He handed her the spoon and watched as she dipped it into the oatmeal first. He watched her swallow it slowly, then go back for more.   
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he observed quietly.  
“Yes, and it will for a few days yet, I suspect,” Irene said. She swallowed another spoonful. “It’s not the first time I’ve been cut, but I had hoped I wouldn’t have to face another one.”  
Sherlock feathered his long fingers over her cheek. “I think we need to talk about some of that past, Irene. It’s starting to become relevant.”  
“Can you tell me what happened to my assailant?”   
His eyes burned into hers. “I threw him down the stairs, and the fall severed his spinal cord. He’ll be paralyzed now.”   
She closed her eyes against the burning in his. Irene took a deep breath. “It’s hard to hear that, Sherlock. Not that he didn’t deserve your wrath, but that a person--even a former client--who I’ve been intimate with will pay for his idiocy with a lifetime of pain.”  
Sherlock stayed absolutely silent, and Irene risked a look. His eyes were still burning, but she could see by the set of his jaw that he was listening. That he would listen, even if he didn’t like what she had to say.  
Irene continued. “The man who assaulted me last night was a client, a member of a criminal organization who preferred his scolding to be rough. Normally, I didn’t engage in anything other than scolding with the male clients. Not my thing. This particular client refused to take no for an answer, and in one session, turned the tables on me. I beat him off with the whip and terminated his future appointments. I used the photographs as a threat to keep him in check.”  
“Seeing our wedding announcement in the News, seeing that you were alive, set him off,” Sherlock observed.   
“We had a wedding announcement?”  
“John tracked it down. It was placed by the Dean at Westminster, who couldn’t have known the danger in a photograph--particularly one printed in black and white.”  
“The dark red hair would have looked black, I suppose,” Irene said.  
“It did. Alerting everyone who reads the News that Irene Adler is alive.”  
Irene closed her eyes again. “They’ll be crawling out of the woodwork, all those former clients, looking for appointments or photographs or who knows.”  
Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I knew who you were when I fell in love with you, Irene. I also know that I occupy the primary place in your heart. You married me, remember? I will not allow your past to come between us. There’s no point.”  
Irene let the tears in her eyes fall down her cheeks. “You have no idea how I needed to hear that.”  
He gave his half-smile. “As for your clients, Mycroft sent me the client list from your old phone. Most of the criminals, aside from the new paraplegic, have been prosecuted based on the information you had. The others, the clients who simply would be embarrassed by what you had, have not yet materialized.”  
“Some simply won’t. I was sought after because of my discretion, Sherlock. I won’t compromise former clients.”  
“We do have to find a way to appease any that do show up, though, Irene. Additionally, I need you to think about which of your former clients are the most likely to find your return...a bad idea for them.” He reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes and cheeks again. “Now, eat.”  
She smiled at him, and took another spoonful of oatmeal. He rested his hands on her belly, needing the contact with both of them. It might have been why he felt it as soon as Irene did.  
Their baby moved. She kicked his hand violently, as a matter of fact, and they both jumped.  
“Do that again, baby girl,” Sherlock said.   
“Ouch, Sherlock,” Irene said mildly. “I guess she’s decided pictures aren’t enough. We need to know her by the kicking of mommy’s belly button.”  
“I can’t believe how strong she is. Have you felt this before?”  
Irene shook her head. “No; I’ve felt a flutter or two, but I couldn’t be sure it was her until now. I guess she wanted our attention.”  
“I guess she did.” Sherlock rubbed Irene’s belly gently. He was rewarded with another kick, and he grinned involuntarily. “Strong, beautiful, brilliant girl.”  
“Apple of her father’s eye already,” Irene commented. “She just needs to stay put for another 14 weeks.”  
“She can do it. Can’t you, baby girl?” Sherlock leaned in and crooned to her belly.  
“Watch out, Mr. Holmes.” Irene spooned up more oatmeal. “That’s sentiment creeping up on you.”  
“Certainly not,” Sherlock commented. “Just...not.”  
“It’s quite all right,” Irene said, steadily eating. “You’re allowed to be in love with your own child. I believe it makes parents better at what they do.”  
Sherlock became silent for a minute, watching Irene eat, feeling their baby move under his hands. “I never thought to become a father. Or a husband, for that matter. For me there was only the puzzle, the case, the game. The work.”  
“I hope you’ve learned that you don’t need to sacrifice your own personal, human needs to be a good detective,” Irene commented.  
“I’m getting there. But I do find that I am distracted by my need to protect those I love. So, to eliminate those distractions, we need to beef up the security at the flat,” Sherlock said.  
“I’ve been thinking along those lines already, darling,” Irene said. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll make the calls while I’m here and get a system set up, something similar to what I had in Paris. We’ll also want to wire the baby’s room with audio and video, so we can see what’s happening in there while she’s sleeping.”  
Sherlock smiled at her. “I’d hoped you say that. I leave the security system in your hands entirely. Meanwhile, make that list, will you? Mycroft and I have some thoughts on how to eliminate these threats to you. John is working on your medical plan with Christine, and he has some thoughts on how to move you back to the flat and keep you from being bored. He’s afraid you’re going to be on permanent bed rest eventually. Oh, and Mary plans to stop by after school today to visit. She’s bringing you some mystery novels.”  
“Leaving again?”   
“Only to go see Lestrade. I want to follow up on the events of last evening. Since the man was injured in the struggle, I might have to face some assault charges myself. I need to go and find out.” He stood up, then leaned down and kissed her lips, softly. “Try not to be too bored. Here.” He handed her smartphone over. “I downloaded a new game. It’s deductive puzzles. Enjoy it. I’ll be back before bedtime.”  
“You will?” Irene had no idea how wistful she sounded.  
“I’ll have them set me up a cot. I can’t sleep when I’m not with you.” It was said casually, but Irene found it a declaration of love.  
“I’ll see you later, then, darling,” Irene said.   
He kissed her again. “Later.”  
…  
Three hours later, Mary stopped by with a bag of books and a carton of Double Fudge Ice Cream.  
“They searched me three times on the way up here,” Mary observed as she handed Irene the bag. “But I managed to get up here with ice cream unmelted and intact, and a half a dozen new mysteries. I just grabbed from the new release section. I hope they’ll do.”  
“I’m sure they’ll do just fine, Mary. Thank you!”  Irene extended a hand to her, and Mary took it. She kissed Irene on the cheek and handed her the carton of ice cream. “The nurse is getting a spoon. I don’t think it’s on your approved list, but it’s low sodium, so you should be all right.”  
“Cheers.” Irene said, and pried off the lid. “Oh, lovely. I don’t think there’s a better cure for anything than chocolate ice cream.”  
“I am in perfect agreement,” Mary said.  
Ellen came in with two spoons. “I thought you might like to share.” She handed them to Mary, then took a look at Irene’s monitors. “Everything looks good, Mrs. Holmes. We might have you out of here earlier than expected. Heart rate’s steady, for both you and the baby. If it weren’t for the bruising and the need for bed rest...well, we’ll see what Dr. Christine has to say.”  
Mary looked at the monitors herself, but it was foreign to her. “So, Irene, tell me what’s going on. John filled me in on the intruder, but I haven’t heard today what’s keeping you here. You look healthy enough.”  
Irene took a steady breath. “My heart didn’t react well to the stress of the intruder’s assault, and when he pushed me to the floor, I hit my left side hard enough to cause bruising and a hard contraction or cramp of some kind that panicked Sherlock. And, of course, I had my throat cut. That wasn’t pleasant. And it’s painful. It will take a few days to heal. And my doctor wants me to rest off my feet until the bruising is gone.”  
“And the security?”  
“The man who assaulted me was known to me. He was a former client. Sherlock’s afraid that other former clients might break down the door at 221B to get to me once it’s known that I’m alive and relatively well, and living there.” Irene paused. “He has some reason to worry. Part of my task today has been to think about which of my former clients are most likely to … pursue me? Attack me? I don’t even know. Stalk me?” She sighed exasperatedly, and took a spoonful of ice cream. It slid down her sore throat like glory. “I haven’t been in that game for more than a year. I cut off male clients when I met Sherlock. I cut off all clients when I faked my death. Something I assume you know about or you wouldn’t be calling me Irene instead of Michele now. The insurance I had against some of those clients and their retributions for my past misbehavior--and theirs--is gone.”  
Mary stuck her spoon in the ice cream. “I suspect Sherlock knew all of this before he married you, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“Then why are you beating yourself up over it?” Mary swallowed a bit of the ice cream. “Eyes wide open and all that.”  
“Sherlock seems to think he should have known that this would happen,” Irene said. “He believes himself omnipotent sometimes. He doesn’t realize that he’s human. And I -- I mean we, now, as our daughter already has him wrapped completely around her little finger -- are proof that he is human. That unsteadies him, makes him more determined to be calculating in his protection of us. It’s an interesting cycle. It’s what makes him tick. But it’s tough on him.”  
“And you, who love him.”  
“Yes, I suppose so.” Irene ate another spoonful of ice cream. “I know we’re both better for loving each other, and partnering. I enjoy his company. He’s hilarious when he’s on form, and so incredibly smart. And sexy. Those eyes and cheekbones get me every time I see them.”  
Mary smiled at that, eating another spoonful of ice cream herself. “I can see that.”  
“Well, and here I am going on and on about my new husband--thank you for indulging me--but I’ve yet to hear the dish on you and the divine Dr. Watson. Come on, now, Mary.” Irene dug in again. “How are things?”  
“They’re wonderful,” Mary said dreamily. “He’s an amazing man, an incredible lover, and a stand-up fiance. I can’t wait to marry him.”  
“When’s the big day?”   
“We’re thinking spring, maybe after your baby is born, so that you can stand up with me,” Mary said. “Oh! Assuming you want to.”  
“I’d love that, Mary.” Irene smiled in delight. “Let’s go with a June wedding, then. Baby girl will be here in May, if not before, though we certainly hope not before. I should be up to standing by June.”  
“That’s settled, then. I’ll see what open dates are available at the churches in the city for June, and we’ll go from there.”  
As the women started talking wedding plans, the ice cream disappeared.  
…  
Mrs. Hudson did, indeed, have a magic formula for getting blood out of carpet. She’d already dealt with the mess in the front hall, and Sherlock found her scrubbing out the spots in the flat’s living area when he arrived back at Baker Street.   
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson threw the brush back down in her bucket and got up. “Whatever’s been going on?”  
He kissed each of her cheeks and held her away from him. “We came home to an unwelcome intruder. You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t kill him, and I won’t stand charges for responding to an assault on my wife in our own home. But Irene was injured, and she’s in hospital. The baby’s fine.”  
“Oh, Sherlock, and here I thought I was giving you a bit of privacy on your first night back,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ll never forgive myself.”  
“I’m glad you weren’t here, Mrs. Hudson. I wouldn’t have wanted you to be in the middle of this, either. But with your permission, we’ll be adding substantial security to the building.”  
“Of course, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. “I’m surprised we didn’t think of it before, with the bodies and the homeless people and the strangers in and out all the time.”  
“Yes, well, when it was just John and me, it didn’t seem to matter as much. But with Michele and the baby …” Sherlock trailed off, then looked back down at Mrs. Hudson, smiling. “We need to do a better job of protecting them. Michele can normally take care of herself, but a baby needs every protection we can give it. Did John tell you, Mrs. Hudson? We’re having a girl.”  
“Oh, a little lassie, Sherlock! How wonderful! I’ll have to go and get some pink wool. I have a great deal of knitting to do. Well, that’s that stain out. I’ll visit Michele in the hospital tomorrow, shall I? It’s getting to be a bit past visiting hours.” Mrs. Hudson bustled about, getting her cleaning supplies together. “Now let that dry, please.”  
“Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
“You’re a treasure.” Sherlock looked at her solemnly. “Thank you.”  
Mrs. Hudson blushed. “Oh, now, it’s no trouble. Do you need dinner?”  
“No, I’m going to get takeaway to bring to my wife. I’ll be spending the night there. They’re setting up a cot.”  
“Well, then I’ll lock up after you.”  
“Do. We’ve got a bit of extra police presence in the neighborhood tonight, and will until we get the security installed; Lestrade’s seeing to that. So don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. And sweet dreams.”  
“Thank you, dear boy. I’m off to my flat then. Tell Michele I’ll see her tomorrow.”  
“I will.”  
Sherlock watched her go back downstairs, then went into his room to get Irene’s favorite blue dressing gown, one of his. He also packed a light bag with an outfit for himself in the morning, and a set of barely worn black pajamas. Since he’d been living with Irene, he rarely wore pajamas, but it seemed that decorum would dictate actual clothing of some kind if he were staying in a monitored hospital room. He also picked her toiletry bag out of her suitcase, as yet still unpacked, and found a soft blue t-shirt and black leggings, and underwear, for her to wear out of the hospital when they finally let her go.   
He locked the bedroom door, then the front room door. He double-checked the lock on John’s old bedroom door, and headed to the street door. He set the locks on it, then texted Mrs. Hudson. Use the chain latch tonight, will you? All’s locked up otherwise. SH  
He waited until he heard Mrs. Hudson slide the chain latch over the door, then hailed a cab.   
“Regions, please.”  
…  
Irene dozed. Mary’s ice cream had left her feeling a bit lazy, and since she was in a hospital, she decided, why not? She woke with a start when she realized there was someone else in the room.  
A cot had been set up for Sherlock next to her bed, just far enough away from it to allow movement around her in the case of an emergency. As she opened her eyes, she saw him, laying on the cot, an arm over his eyes, a bag on the floor.   
“Sherlock?” She was whispering again. The cut pulled against the bandage, and while she knew that meant it was crusting, it was tough to get words out.   
He lifted his arm and saw her looking at him, then sat up and reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “I’m here.”  
“I missed you.” She brought their joined hands to her face and kissed his palm. He came over to sit on the edge of her bed, and leaned down to kiss her lips. She sighed. “Join me here, will you?”  
Obligingly, he curled around her on the bed, tucking her head into his shoulder, mindful of the monitors. A glance at them showed her heart and the baby’s were both beating steadily, calmly. He wrapped his arms around her, and they both slept.  
…  
He woke abruptly, a light shining in his eyes. “What the?”  
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I’m Jenna, the night nurse. I just came in to check on Mrs. Holmes. Her monitor’s fallen off.”  
Sherlock moved, and Irene protested unintelligibly, still mostly asleep. Jenna fixed the tapes back on the belly and on to Irene’s finger, and watched as the monitors came back on. “Good, all nice and steady. Sorry about that, Mr. Holmes, but we want to make sure your wife doesn’t have any more problems.”  
“No, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have been in bed with her.”  
Jenna grinned at him. “We find that expectant fathers prefer to be in bed with their partners, and we tend to look the other way if we can. It’s only that her monitors came off. Here, climb back in. I’ll help keep them in place.” She lifted the cords away from Irene’s side, and Sherlock curled back in with her. Jenna tucked the cords away from them, making sure they were still secure. “Can I get you anything?”  
“No, thank you.”  
“Right, then. I’ll just be at the monitoring center. Beep me if you need me.”  
Sherlock stroked Irene’s hair, then laid a hand on their baby. She moved under his hand, and he wondered how they hadn’t noticed how active she was before. He also wondered how Irene could sleep through it.   
He continued to ponder that question as he fell back to sleep.  
…  
“Sherlock.”  
He grunted.  
“Sherlock, darling, I need to get up and use the loo.”  
He opened one eye, and saw Irene looking desperately at him. He got up, and he helped Irene out of bed. They rolled her monitors with her to the loo, which she used, and rolled her back.   
“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, yawning hugely.  
“About 7 a.m., I think,” Irene said. “It’s been my usual loo time in this trimester.”   
He helped her get back into bed, where she curled up on her right side. “My hip hurts.”  
“Do you want the nurse?” Sherlock asked.   
“No, there’s not much they can give me for the pain, I’m afraid. I just need to change position.”  
“Do you want me to re-join you? Or shall I take the cot?”  
“If you rejoin me, can you massage me a bit?”  
“You know we’re on camera, right?”  
“I do. I don’t expect a show, Sherlock. But a massage would be nice. I have sore muscles today. I think she was playing football in there last night.”  
Sherlock smiled at that, and spooned in bed behind her. He reached under the sheet and blanket, pulled up the nasty hospital gown, and, making sure she was shielded from the camera, slowly rubbed her belly and side.   
“That feels amazing,” she purred hoarsely. “You could have a second career.”  
“I don’t think so, Woman. You’re the only one I want to touch in this way,” Sherlock said. His busy hands started rubbing a little higher, then one cupped a breast.  
“Didn’t you say we’re on camera, darling?” Irene whispered to him, snuggling her naked bottom into his crotch, which was covered in pajamas and boxers.  
“I did, but I can’t seem to help touching you.” His penis was doing its best to reach out and touch her, too. “We’re under a sheet. It’s not like it would be porn.”  
A tap on the door stopped them. Sherlock removed his hands but stayed where he was, willing his body to cool down. He started by reciting the periodic table in his head. It didn’t help much, but it was a start.  
Ellen, the day nurse, was back, and she’d brought Dr. Christine in with her. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, I see you’ve slept well. Although there’s a minor heart blip a few minutes ago, Irene.”  
“Yes, well, that’s Sherlock’s fault. He, uh, moved me.”  
“I can see that,” Christine said archly. “How’s baby this morning?”  
“She kicked me all night. We never even noticed her moving before, and now it’s like we have a football team in there,” Irene said. “My muscles are sore.”  
“She’s just gotten big enough to make you feel her, Irene,” Christine said. “Sherlock, do you mind exiting the bed for a moment? I want to examine Irene.”  
“Ah, certainly,” he said, sliding out of the bed with his back to the doctor. “I’ll just go and get dressed, shall I?” With his back to them, he picked up his overnight bag and headed into the attached bathroom, where the ladies shortly heard water running.  
“Irene, it might be time to curtail the sexual activity a bit,” Christine said.   
“What do you mean, Doctor?”  
Christine printed out tape from the previous 15 minutes. “Do you see this acceleration? That’s you and Sherlock, a few minutes ago. Don’t try and tell me you weren’t beginning to engage in sexual activity, because it’s all, literally, on tape.”  
“I won’t tell you that, but surely it’s all right to engage in a little activity?” Irene asked anxiously. “I’m sure my heart will accelerate sometimes, and that’s going to fine, right?”  
Sherlock re-entered the room, dressed in his usual pants and shirt, jacket at the ready. Christine looked straight at him and said, “No sex.”  
He paused, looked at Irene, and said, “Fine.”  
Irene knew he meant it. “But what kind of sex are we talking about? No orgasms, no penetration, no excitement, what?”  
Christine thought that an intelligent question. “Until this bruising heals, no penetration. Until your heart stays at a steady pace for a full week, no orgasms. I don’t imagine you can help excitement, but do try to be careful.”  
“We can handle that, Christine,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been expecting this directive for some time.”  
“I’m sure you have, Sherlock.” Christine hesitated. “Look, I know that sex is a vital part of any relationship, but this is important for Irene’s health, and the baby’s. I might have to ban penetration altogether for the duration of the pregnancy if those scars don’t stretch. If we get Irene’s heart rate under control--and it seems to me Dr. Watson has prescribed the perfect medication for that--she can go home tomorrow. If we have no faintness or other incidents for the next week, I’ll allow you to engage in limited activity that will include orgasms. I want to look at the bruising today, so I’ve ordered an ultrasound cart.”  
Irene looked mournfully at Sherlock. He smiled at her. “I can control myself, Irene. And it’s not forever.”  
“But can I control myself?” Irene asked him. “That I can’t guarantee.”  
He laughed.   
The tech came in with the cart and set it up next to Irene’s bed. Christine reached for the gel, and Sherlock bared Irene’s belly for the wand. The pictures came up, and Sherlock could see their girl was sleeping, finally. Christine narrowed in on the left side bruise, which was healing well, and then checked the scarred area, which still looked good. She checked the baby’s heart, and showed them her face. “Does this wee lassie have a name yet?”  
“No, we haven’t really discussed it,” Irene said. “She was to be a wee Hamish, and I really can’t see that now, can you, Sherlock?”  
“No. Doesn’t seem to fit.” Sherlock studied the face of his little girl intently. “Something classic, maybe? Something that doesn’t start with H. Too much alliteration.”  
“Classic … I can see that,” Irene looked with rapt attention as their little girl opened her eyes and yawned at them. They laughed together. “Maybe not? Is that a commentary, dear one?”  
Sherlock shook his head. “Difficult already.”  
“Well, she’s your child, Sherlock,” Irene said. “Bound to be brilliant, and difficult.”  
“That said,” Christine broke in, “she looks great.” She removed the wand, handed Sherlock the paper towels, and had the tech wheel out the cart.  
Sherlock wiped down Irene’s belly, and replaced the sheet. “It won’t be for long, Irene, and it’s best for you, really.”  
“Yes, I know. But if we don’t have that …”  
Sherlock tipped her chin up and looked into her eyes. “Irene, that has not been the foundation of our relationship. Yes, it’s a vital part of it. But I’m in love with you, the clever survivor with a mind as brilliant as mine. I’m not going anywhere. I lived without sex for 33 years, with no lasting problems that I can see. I can go a few months if I have to.”  
Christine came back in on that last phrase. “It might not be longer than a week, either, Irene. You’re healing nicely, and the scarring is stretching just enough, so far. As long as we can keep your heart beating steadily and your blood pressure down, you should be well enough for some forms of activity in a week. Just don’t rush it. And don’t pressure yourself. You need to stay healthy in order for that wee lassie to stay healthy.” She checked the monitors again. “And see, this conversation must be causing you stress, but your heart is beating perfectly steadily and your blood pressure is fine. One more day, just for monitoring, Irene, and I’ll let you go home tomorrow.”  
Sherlock perked up. “I’d like that.”  
“So would I,” Irene said. “What about my throat?”  
“Ah, well, Dr. Watson’s coming in to look at that today, but if it’s not infected, I suspect he’ll OK your release as well,” Christine said.   
“Marvelous,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to talk to John today anyway.”  
“Did you know he and Mary are planning to marry in June, Sherlock?”  
“No, it didn’t come up when we spoke yesterday.”  
“Oh, Mary stopped by yesterday afternoon and we made wedding plans. It was fun,” Irene said.  
Christine finished her notes on Irene’s chart, and stepped back. “Unless there’s some sort of incident between now and tomorrow morning, I won’t see you until I release you in the morning.”  
“I brought an outfit for her to wear upon her release, Christine. And a better dressing gown, if it’s all right for her to wear something else.”  
Christine shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the monitors.”  
“Yes, I’ve had that lesson already.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“Oh, yes, heard about that.” Christine smirked at them. “I think the nurses have been indulging you far too much, but as long as you don’t interfere with the monitors, it’s fine.”  
Irene raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Did I miss something?”  
“You slept through the scolding I got from the night nurse about moving your monitors. It’s all right, she helped tuck me back in with you. I have that effect on ladies,” Sherlock said pompously.  
Irene laughed, and Christine smiled with her. “All right then. John will be by at 11. You’ll want to order breakfast up soon, Irene. As long as you’re here, I’m going to order the usual 20-24 week blood work, and I want you to have some fuel in your system first.”  
“Yes, Christine,” Irene said obediently. Sherlock added, “I’ll make sure of it.”  
“Be sure you do. Have a good day,” Christine said as she left.  
Sherlock looked down at Irene. “Would you like to change?”  
“Yes, please. And I’d love a wash-up.”   
“Let’s see what we can do.”  
Sherlock rang the nurse, and Ellen came back in with a basin and a washcloth. “Ready for a wash-up, I’d guess?”  
“Yes, and we need to order up breakfast.”  
“All right.” Ellen handed Sherlock the basin and cloth. “I’ll ring down. What’s for this morning? Tea, I assume?”  
“Yes, and more of that oatmeal, please. And fruit. Maybe some scrambled eggs?”  
Sherlock paused. “Can I get something? I haven’t eaten in a couple of days, and I’m hungry this morning.”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“Eggs and toast, please. And I’ll have regular tea.”  
“I’ll ring down. Ignore the monitors during the wash-up. I’ll dim the the viewing screen for your privacy. Just beep me when you’re ready,” Ellen said, leaving the room.  
“Nice of them to give us privacy right after telling us we can’t do anything naughty with it,” Sherlock commented, setting the basin down on the side table. He pulled her sheets and blanket down, then helped her sit on the side of the bed. “I’m going to give you your wash, and then I’ll bundle you into the dressing gown I brought.”  
“Which one?” she asked.  
“My blue one. Your favorite,” he replied, untying the strings at her back and sliding the gown off of her shoulders. He detached the monitors briefly to move the gown off of her, then lay her back. He wet the cloth, using a bit of the baby wash they’d left him in the basin, and gently wiped down her shoulders and arms, stroking the cloth over her chest and breasts, and cleaning off her belly. She tensed as he re-wet the cloth and wiped down her thighs and the neatly trimmed thatch of hair between them, but he did nothing other than clean her. He wrung out the cloth again, and re-wet it to wash down her legs. “Let’s turn you to the right so I can do your back.” He helped her roll to her side, and he gently washed down her back and bottom. He re-wet again, then wiped down her underarms and left side, being careful with the bruising on her hip. He sat her back up, then washed down her right side.  
“Sherlock?” Irene asked softly.  
“Yes, love,” he said absently, concentrating on his work.   
“This is not helping my commitment to not have sex with you for a week,” Irene said.  
He looked at her and gave his half-smile. “Nor mine. But we’ll just have to suffer for it.” He reached for a clean cloth, wet it with clean water, and washed her all down again by way of a rinse. By the time he’d finished the second lap, she was almost desperate, and as he turned around to face her again, she saw the front of his pants. He was likely as desperate as she.  
He followed her gaze to the front of his pants, and smiled again. “I’ll recite the periodic table in a minute. It helps.”  
“How long has that been your go to?” Irene asked curiously.  
“Since I was about 14, and started noticing girls. I was dedicated to my art, you see. Couldn’t let them distract me. Only you ever got my engine revving so hard I had to do something about it, Woman. Even so, the periodic table has come in handy a few times since I met you, as well,” Sherlock said, setting the cloth back in the basin and putting the basin aside. He went to the overnight bag he’d packed, and pulled out her toiletry bag and his dressing gown. “Let’s get you bundled in.”  
He helped her stand, and held out the robe while she put her arms in it. He buttoned up the front, covering her up, remembered the monitors, and unbuttoned two buttons over her belly. He helped her back into bed, and reattached the baby monitor. The beeps started back up, making him smile. He handed the finger monitor back to Irene, and she slipped it on. Her heart beats began to beep again, too.   
Sherlock turned to her toiletry bag, and pulled out her hair brush. They cranked up her bed, so she was sitting upright, and he got into bed behind her. She sighed as he loosened her braid and began to brush her hair out.   
“You know,” he said, working on a particularly difficult knot, “you could let your hair go back to black again if you wanted to. There’s no reason to disguise it.”  
Irene shrugged. “I don’t know if I want to. I like the red. I was under the impression you liked it, too.”  
“Oh, I do,” Sherlock answered, briskly sectioning her hair and working on the next piece. “But I liked it dark, too. It’s my first memory of you.”  
“Hmm. I’ll think about it.” Irene felt like purring. “Have you ever brushed someone else’s hair before? You’re awfully good at it.”  
“My mother’s. It was what she liked me to do for her when she was sad.” Sherlock worked on the next section. “I’m not sure when she first handed me a hairbrush, actually. I don’t remember. But I liked brushing her hair. It was our time.”  
Irene’s heart went out to him. “What happened to your mother, Sherlock?”  
“She died a few years ago, of breast cancer.” Sherlock attacked the last section of her hair. “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good son in the end. I was experimenting with different solutions of cocaine, and the experiments got away from me. I was in rehab when she died.”  
“I’m sure she remembered the little boy who brushed her hair,” Irene said quietly. “And you’ll always have that memory of her.”  
“Yes.” Sherlock finished brushing her out, then sectioned her hair into three sections and plaited it, finishing the braid with the cloth rubber band he’d pulled out of her toiletry kit. He tossed it over her shoulder. “There. Should’ve been a hairdresser. Probably pays better.”  
Irene leaned back into him. “I love you, Sherlock.”  
“I love you, too.” He put his arms around her from behind, and cuddled her that way. Then he sighed. “I suppose we ought to beep Ellen and let her know she can turn the monitor back on brightly.”  
“Yes, we’ll want our breakfast.” Irene snuggled back into him. “You’ve taught me something this morning, Sherlock.”  
“Oh?”  
“You don’t have to have sex to make love. Because you have just made love to me, in a very satisfactory way, and I feel loved.”  
Sherlock kissed the back of her neck. “I’m glad. Because you are loved.”  
Irene leaned on him. “What was your mother’s name?”  
“Elena.”  
“Do you think our daughter would like that name?”  
Sherlock swallowed. “I think she would.”  
“Then it’s settled. She’s Elena. At least for a first name. We’ll go from there.”   
Sherlock turned her face to his and kissed her, deeply. “I really do love you.”  
A tap at the door interrupted them. Ellen called out from the other side of the door. “Are you decent? Because breakfast is here.”  
“Yes, please do come in,” Sherlock said, staying right where he was.  
Ellen smiled as she came in with the breakfast cart. “Don’t you two look cozy? Well, here I have your breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast for Mr. Holmes; oatmeal, fresh berries and scrambled eggs for Mrs. Holmes; tea for both. Irene, we have your raspberry tea. Sherlock, this is regular English breakfast tea with milk and sugar.”  
“Thanks,” Sherlock said.   
Ellen set up the lap table and placed their trays on it. “You have a couple of hours before Dr. Watson is scheduled to arrive. A lab tech will be here in about an hour to take blood, Irene. You two enjoy your breakfast.” She set the cart in the corner and stepped back out.  
They dug in, Irene finding herself famished. She still had a little pain when swallowing, so she looked forward to John taking her bandage off. It seemed to her it was the adhesive of the bandage pulling on her neck now, rather than the cut. Sherlock ate with a steadiness that told her he’d told the truth when he’d said he hadn’t eaten in a few days. She knew very well he didn’t eat much when on the scent, and it was clear he hadn’t made time for food the day before.  
As they cleaned their plates, and Irene reached for her tea, she posed the question. “All right, Sherlock. What’s happened that I don’t know about?”  
He took a last bite of egg and picked up his own tea. “Well, I won’t be facing charges. According to Lestrade, self-defense, even that ending in severe injury for the intruder, is justifiable. Especially as I didn’t use a weapon in, er, restraining the intruder. Therefore, I’m off the hook. The intruder, however, is not. Once he’s stable, he’ll be transferred to a prison hospital, where he’ll likely stay for a while.”  
Irene shook her head. “He’ll pay a heavy price for his obsession with me.”  
“Yes.” Sherlock sipped his tea, then set down the cup. “Mrs. Hudson agrees to the increased security. I’m to tell you she’ll be by sometime today.”  
“That reminds me, Sherlock. I did make those calls yesterday. The techs I used on my flat here in London will be going to Baker Street this afternoon to assess the security and prepare a plan for us. They’ll set up cameras in the front hall, stairs, and baby’s room. We’ll have the windows and doors wired, with alarms set at night or when we’re gone. There will be regular and electronic locks, so that we need to enter a code within 30 seconds of entering a door in order to prevent the summoning of police. I didn’t want cameras or audio in our private space, nor in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, as that’s where I’ll be meeting with clients. They deserve their privacy. But I think this will be a big improvement.”  
“I agree. I’ll text Mrs. Hudson that they’re coming. Names?” Sherlock asked as he pulled out his phone.  
“Jonathan Drew and Lily DeLaut.”  
“Got it.” Mrs. H., Jonathan Drew and Lily DeLaut will be by this afternoon to check out security. SH  
Irene thought for a second. “I also started a mental list, but I’m not sure what good it will do. I was a bit reckless for a while, and clients who got too possessive were bounced off my client list. I don’t have insurance on all of them, unfortunately. Or fortunately. I can’t figure out which is which, honestly.”  
“Well, let’s start with the possessive ones.”  
Irene thought again. “Kevin Andrews. Josh Crandall. Fran Tescha. Martin Frink. These are the ones I had to cut off. I broke up one marriage, that I know of, and the parties there might have a problem with me still. Mycroft has those details, I’m sure. The MOD man, who lost his job over that email, I believe.”  
“Fran Tescha--man or woman?”  
“Woman.”  
Sherlock nodded, then looked at the list he’d just entered into the notes on his smartphone. “It’s a place to start.”   
“You know, it’s funny. More of the men than the women got possessive. I think it’s in their DNA.”  
Sherlock shrugged, already engrossed in his first search, for Kevin Andrews. “That’s what studies suggest. Another reason to avoid women.”  
Irene shook her head. “You know, you’ve said something similar to me at least twice today. You’ll give me a complex.”  
“I seriously doubt it, as you are the exception that proves the rule,” Sherlock said absently. “Is this the Kevin Andrews you’re talking about?” He turned his phone around to show Irene the picture, of a silver-haired gentleman at an impressive desk.  
“Yes.”  
“Upper member of the Health Services ministry; a doctor. GP. Better administrator than doctor, it seems. Never married.”  
Irene closed her eyes. “I should hope not. The man’s a beast.”  
Sherlock looked at her sideways, but said nothing, at first. Then, he realized, as much as he didn’t want to know, he had to know, in case something was relevant. “In what way?”  
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”  
“I think I must. Don’t worry; my possessiveness DNA is firmly tamped.”  
Irene smiled a little. “All of these clients liked a measure of pain as part of their submission. That’s part of what a dominatrix provides--the whole word means ‘to dominate’. In most cases, all they really want is a scolding, sometimes with basic spanking, or paddling. Sometimes with the riding crop, or a stronger whip. Some liked to be whipped until they bled. It provided them something they needed to feel alive, to achieve sexual satisfaction.  
“Andrews started off as a client who wanted paddling. As our appointments progressed, he asked for harder paddlings and whippings. Eventually, he wanted me to cut him with his own French saber. He paid well for the privilege. But then he started stalking my other clients. He’d surprise them coming out of the flat I used for my business, threaten them. In the next appointment he had with me, I took photographs of what he liked, while he was tied up and could do nothing about it. I promised him I would release the photographs to the press if he ever came back, or if he ever confronted another one of my clients. I had Kate untie him and send him on his way, because if ever I saw someone who wanted to cut me, he was one of them.  
“I haven’t heard from him since, though once in a while, before my ‘death,’ I thought I’d see him out of the corner of my eye. I have no doubt, Sherlock, that if he knows I’m alive, he’ll be looking for me.”  
Sherlock made notes, holding himself in rigid check.  “Josh Crandall?”  
Irene closed her eyes again, as if remembering was exhausting. “Josh, the poor man, had serious problems. He’d had a very rough childhood, and he could only achieve...orgasm … through being spanked. He was sweet in many ways. And I think he believed himself in love with me. I had to stop working with him when he asked me out on a real date. I’d like to think that he wouldn’t hurt me, but it’s hard to know what’s relevant, Sherlock. And he was possessive. And needy.”  
Deep breath. “Fran Tescha.”  
“We had a full-on affair, Sherlock. I thoroughly enjoyed her company, as she did mine. But it went too far. She started demanding that I stop seeing my other clients, throw Kate out--she was terribly jealous of Kate, who, as you know, was my personal assistant and occasional recreational lover. One night, she turned up while I was having dinner with a potential client--that’s how I screened them--shouting about how she loved me and only me, and if I loved her in return, I’d stop what I did for a living. I guess I didn’t love her, because I didn’t see any reason to stop a business that was so lucrative, just to spend time with an overly possessive twit. I ended it. And yes, I had to use the photographs I had of us as a threat to keep her away.”   
“Martin Frink.”  
Irene seemed to withdraw into herself a bit. “Some people believe that it’s not possible to rape a sex worker, because they’re there to be used. He was one of them. I didn’t screen carefully enough, and he raped and beat me with the whip he’d told me I was to use on him. I could’ve pressed charges. I should have, actually. But I thought myself above the law, and held him accountable with photographs of my beaten body.”  
Sherlock’s head whipped up. “How often did that sort of thing happen in your old line of work?”  
“Just that once, Sherlock. I usually screened people better, and I rarely had actual sex with any of them. Only my stepfather crossed that line with me, before I was old enough to know what he was doing, really.” She paused. “Some days I wish I could have killed him myself.”  
“Ah, yes. What about the client who killed your stepfather for you?”  
“She was killed in car accident shortly after that. As far as I know, it was an actual car accident. She was a good friend, even if she was a bit psychopathic.”  
Sherlock set his phone back down on the table next to them, and opened his arms to her. She leaned into him, then whispered, “I like my new life better.”  
…  
The phlebotomist found them like that when she arrived thirty minutes later. Irene was dozing on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he was holding her, deep in thought.  
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said sprightly. “I need a bit of blood from Mrs. Holmes, doctor’s orders.”  
“Irene,” Sherlock said quietly, rubbing her arm. “You’re needed.”  
Irene opened her eyes, and protested. “I really just want to go back to sleep,” she said drowsily.   
“Not yet,” he said firmly.   
“It’s all right, Mr. Holmes. I only need her arm.” Efficiently, the phlebotomist set up her kit, took Irene’s arm, tied it off, found a vein, and took four vials of her blood. “That’s me done, then. See? Just a minute.”  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. Irene said nothing, but curled back into him, the new bandage on her arm covered by his dressing gown. Sherlock recognized the signs of encroaching depression; he’d seen them often enough in himself. He didn’t quite know what to about it, though, so he just wrapped his arms back around her, leaned back, and dozed off with her.  
…  
John woke them an hour later. “Well, I see you’re making good use of your time,” he commented with a smile.  
“It’s good to see you, John,” Irene said, rubbing her eyes and sitting up and away from Sherlock. She didn’t look at him, Sherlock noted.   
John noticed, too, but said nothing. “Let’s have a listen to your heart, shall we?” He pulled the stethoscope--the one she’d given him for Christmas--from around his neck and warmed the metal disk in his hands before placing it against the skin of her chest and listening. The swish of the murmur that he’d heard before was barely perceptible, a good sign. The meds he’d prescribed were working well. He looked at the monitors and printed tape of the past 24 hours. Some agitation in the last few hours--I imagine Sherlock had to ask the questions he didn’t want to ask, John thought--but it didn’t change the overall pattern of steady beating.   
“Well, Irene, I’m inclined to agree with Christine and let you out tomorrow,” John said. “I’d let you out today, but she wants another day of guaranteed bedrest for you. Let me take a look at that cut on your neck, now.” John lifted the bandage, and Irene breathed with relief as the adhesive left her neck. “It looks good, clean, crusted perfectly. Should be well healed in a couple of days, Irene. I don’t think you’ll even have a scar.”  
“Good,” she said.   
John put his stethoscope back up, and pulled up a chair. “So what’s going on with you two? I’ve not seen you without your bill and coo for, well, ever, at least since you got back.”  
Irene still wouldn’t look at Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t feel her story was his to share, even with John. But Sherlock did think his partner-in-detecting could start looking for people. “John, I’m sending you a text with the names of four people we need to track down. We need their current whereabouts, and we’ll need to keep track of them. I want to keep Irene out of the spotlight as much as possible, and these are the four she thinks most likely to pose a danger to her.”  
“Right,” John said. “I’ll get on that. Shall I alert Lestrade?”  
Sherlock thought for a second. “Yes, just so that if we see those faces near Baker Street, he’s alerted. I don’t like the thought of Irene being alone at Baker Street, ever, with these four around. If they’ve discovered she’s alive. We’ve got security being tightened up there today, and a system will be installed soon, but in the meantime, we’ll want eyes on everything.”  
“I’m on it. Irene, don’t worry. We’ve got your back,” John said, calmly. “I’ve also done a bit of installing at Baker Street myself today, on the off chance you’d prefer to be on bed rest at home rather than in hospital.”  
“What are you talking about, John?” Irene asked.  
“Well, I had a little conversation with Christine yesterday, and we agreed that there should be equipment available at Baker Street, beyond the Doppler monitor I brought in, just to ensure your safety. So, I’ve got, installed in an empty closet there, a full med kit and heart monitor set up. I’ll show Sherlock how to use it, and that will cut any response time necessary in an emergency to practically zero.”  
“John, I don’t know what to say,” Irene took his hand. “Thank you.”  
“Well, it’s something I can do, since I don’t live there anymore.” John stood up. “Sherlock, can I see you in the hall for a second? I want to show you an example of the equipment I have there now.”  
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. He shifted out from behind Irene, and stood, letting blood back into limbs that had fallen asleep in their position supporting Irene. He came around the bed, to where his wife still refused to look at him. He sighed, then placed a hand under her chin and raised it so her face was level with his. Her eyes finally met his, and he kissed her. “I’ll be right back.”  
He left her there and followed John out into the hall. “What?” Sherlock said. “You know I can set all that stuff up. I’ve been watching them do it almost daily here.”  
“What’s wrong with Irene?” John asked bluntly.  
“She told me the full story behind each of those four names. She thought I might need it all so that I could fully protect her. I think she’s a bit embarrassed by it, unsure how I’ll ultimately react to it, and, for some reason, I think she’s depressed. But I’m not sure why.”  
“Look, Sherlock, you’ve come a long way in the last year, but some parts of this probably won’t be easy for you to understand.” John took a deep breath. “It’s hard for most of us to face the pasts that formed us. For me, that was war. And when I was invalided out, I nearly lost my mind. It was only getting back into action with you that kept me from doing so completely. Irene had to completely change her life in a rapid period of time simply to save it. Her profession, her past--they forced her into a change she might not have been ready for. Falling for you made her want to change her profession. But that past, if she allows it to, will haunt her, Sherlock. You’ve had to make her face that. If you’re kind, you’ll help her see that it doesn’t matter to you.”  
Sherlock paused. “But it does matter to me. Do you see the last name on that list?”  
“Frink?”  
“Yes. Given what I now know about him, I think I’d like to kill him. In fact, I know I’d like to kill him. Slowly. And I know I could, and get away with it. What does that say about me, John? What does that say about me?”  
“I don’t know what he did, but it must have been bad, Sherlock, for you to feel that way. And if you need me, I’ve got your back.” John paused again. “I’ll find them for you. You stay with her.”  
“Got it.” Sherlock held out his hand. “Thanks, John.” John shook it, and left.  
Sherlock took a deep breath, and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Maybe it would be good for her to see the rage he had on her behalf. The sheer rage at the circumstances that led her into her previous profession, the rage at the clients who abused and used her, the rage that she still couldn’t quite trust him enough to give him details, even when they were necessary toward understanding the danger to her--and their child.  
And the fear. The deep fear that to allow that rage out into the row they probably needed to have would tip her heart into a racing frenzy that would lead her right back to the hospital.   
He snorted.   
“Thinking deep thoughts, brother?” Mycroft melted out of the shadows in the hall from the elevator.  
“A few.” Sherlock looked up at his brother. “I’m wondering if it is, indeed, possible to both strangle the woman I love and soothe her at the same time.”  
Mycroft added his snort to Sherlock’s. “One of the reasons I’m not married, Sherlock. That, and I just don’t have the time.” He twirled his umbrella. “How is Mrs. Holmes?”  
“Depressed at a past that seems to be catching back up with her.” Sherlock shook his head. “We’ve narrowed down a list of the most likely to respond badly to her turning up. They were dangers to her before that she kept insurance against on that phone. Now she doesn’t have that insurance, so we’ll have to find a way to keep them away. One ought to be flayed within an inch and tossed in the Thames.”  
“And it’s good for the world that I’m the one in charge at the British government. Your penchant for drama and romance would be completely out of place when practical decisions must be made.”  
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.” Sherlock resisted the urge to stick out his tongue.   
“As it happens, Sherlock, I bring you something to help you with your quest. Here’s her client list, casebook, and the photographs that were on her phone.” Mycroft handed him a memory stick. “You might find it useful.”  
Sherlock turned the memory stick in his hands. “It might, indeed,” he said quietly, thinking.  
“Sherlock, I do feel a need to caution you. Some of those photos are rather revealing.”   
“I’ve had a conversation with my wife, and I have a good idea of what they reveal.” Sherlock tapped the memory stick. “I’m sure the reason for the aforementioned person who deserves flaying is revealed on here, too.”  
“I believe so, yes. And I can’t blame you. So I don’t want to know about it.” Mycroft shot his cuffs, and an assistant materialized out of the shadows as well, bearing roses. “Now, I plan to visit my sister-in-law.”  
Sherlock tapped, heard Irene say, exasperatedly, “Come in, Sherlock,” and he poked his head round the door. “You have another visitor.”  
“Who?” Irene, who had reclined the bed in his absence, sat it back up. She looked tired.  
“Mycroft, who is bearing gifts,” Sherlock said, without irony, and he grinned at her.  
“Oh, well, if there’s a gift involved, let him in,” Irene gestured.  
Mycroft stepped in, bearing a crystal vase filled with three dozen pink roses. “For my beautiful sister-in-law,” he said gallantly, presenting them to her.   
Irene sniffed deeply, and bestowed upon him one of her sparkling smiles. “I love roses, Mycroft. Thank you.”  
Sherlock went around her bed and sat on his cot. “I didn’t know you loved roses.”  
“And you call yourself a detective,” Irene said, smiling at him to take out the sting.  
He was just pleased she was looking at him again.  
Mycroft seated himself on the chair next to her bed. “I’m told you’ll be released tomorrow, all things going according to plan.”  
“Yes, John and Christine seem to be in accord,” Irene said. “John has set up emergency equipment at Baker Street, just in case, but the medications to slow my blood pressure and keep my heart murmur under control seem to be working well. They’d like me to stay off my feet until the bruising has healed, but other than that …”  
“Yes, and I know you’ve been working on your security. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a team to help your security representatives. You should be wired up as you requested before you go home tomorrow.” Mycroft handed her an invoice that came out of his inside coat pocket. “Courtesy of the Holmes trust.”  
“That’s very generous, Mycroft,” Irene said. “Are you certain?”  
“Mycroft doesn’t spend a nickel he’s not positive he’s using correctly, Woman,” Sherlock said dryly. “He’s very certain.”  
“Thank you. It will be a load off my mind,” Irene said.   
“And mine, Mycroft, thank you,” Sherlock added.  
Mycroft waved a languid hand. “And I assume that my niece is well?”  
“She’s been kicking and moving the last two days,” Irene told him. “It’s as if she’s woken up to her own existence. It’s really quite amazing.”  
“We’ve settled on a name for her,” Sherlock said quietly. “We don’t have a middle name yet, but we’re going to call her Elena.”  
Mycroft almost smiled. “Mummy would have liked that. She appreciated sentiment.”  
…  
John started with Kevin Andrews. He was precisely where Sherlock thought he was--in his office at NHS. He would bear watching, but he’d not done anything illegal.  
Josh Crandall was married, with a baby on the way, and working in Lincoln. He’d left London the previous winter. Odds were he didn’t know that Irene was alive, and given his new circumstances, probably wouldn’t care if she was. John didn’t cross him off the list, but bumped him way down the watch list.  
Fran Tescha was dead. Committed suicide by shooting herself less than a month after Irene “died.” Poor girl.  
Martin Frink was in prison for rape and assault. John suddenly knew why Sherlock wanted to kill the man. But where he was, Frink was safe from Sherlock. He thought.  
These were the top four candidates for reprisals? John whistled.  Quite the list. He texted Sherlock the information he had, in short texts, then added: Further instructions?  
He received a short text in reply: Baker Street. Security being installed. Be there. Please. SH  
Texted back: On my way.  
…  
Sherlock put his phone back into his pocket and stretched out on the cot. Mycroft had gone, the nurses had been in to check on Irene and had left again, and Mrs. Hudson had texted that she’d be waiting at Baker Street for security, rather than coming to visit. With many profuse apologies.  
So it was he and Irene, and she wasn’t talking to him at the moment. Sort of lost in her own world, he thought, hiding in sleep.  
He thought it over. Increased security might, indeed, be enough to protect them. They could keep an eye on the client list, and let it be known that Irene was no longer in that line of work. Some would always try her, he thought, but she no longer wanted that life. She wanted their life, with their partnership, their baby.  
For that matter, so did he.  
Rarely were cases so open and shut for him. Intruder interrupted, intruder caught. Client list found, potential danger targeted, threats dealt with or watched. Easy.   
But it was the puzzle in here, of how to respond to his wife, how to help her deal with her past, compartmentalize it, or whatever needed doing so that she could move on and continue her life.   
He felt inadequate to the task.   
“Turn off your brain, Sherlock,” he heard Irene mutter from her bed. He raised himself up, to see her looking at him. “I can hear you from over here.”  
He sat up and looked back at her. “I’m trying to think how to help you.”  
“You help by being my protector, in this instance, I suppose.” Irene sighed. “And by being here for me, even when I’m ignoring you.”  
“Everyone deserves time to go into their own heads for a while,” Sherlock said. “I do. I’m not always considerate about it, either.”   
“No, you’re not, but that’s just you,” Irene said. “I’m used to it. It’s part of what I like about you, actually.” She sighed again. “I just … I wonder sometimes, what you see in me, Sherlock. I’m so...damaged. So wrong in some ways. I manipulated you when we met. It was a game to me.”  
“And to me, Irene, don’t forget. And as I told you before, we both won.”  
“Yes, but...I don’t know. Telling you all those things earlier today. It made me feel dirty in a way I haven’t for a very long time. It’s how my stepfather used to make me feel. It’s a feeling I’ve tried to bury or wash away by telling myself I was empowered. That I could use men the way I’d been used.” She looked away. “I was just fooling myself. Frink taught me that.”  
“I would kill him with my bare hands if I could get to him,” Sherlock said calmly. She shivered, because she knew it was true. “But I can’t get to him at the moment; he’s in prison for rape and assault.”  
Relief washed through her. “Really?”  
“I’ve had John looking into the current whereabouts of the top four on your list today. Frink is in a maximum security prison. Even I can’t touch him there.” Sherlock gave her a half smile. “Andrews is still free and in his office. I think all we can do there is keep an eye on him. Crandall is living in Lincoln with his new, very pregnant wife, and they seem happy. John thinks we can bump him down the list, and I tend to agree. Happy people don’t need to be reminded of their unhappiness.”  
“What about Fran?” Irene asked.   
“She’s gone, Irene,” Sherlock said.   
Irene looked away again. “How?”  
“She committed suicide. She must have been a very sad woman,” Sherlock said.  
Tears, so often at the surface lately, came to her eyes again. “I’m sorry to hear that. She meant something to me, once.”  
“I know.” Sherlock laid a hand on hers. “I don’t blame you for it, Irene. For any of it. You did what you needed to do to survive. You took what amounted to a nightmare of a childhood and made it work for you. Look what you do now. You help people, some of whom have the same nightmares, to deal with them. You’ve triumphed, Irene. You’ve won this round of the game.”  
“Do you really think so?” Irene asked tremulously.   
“I really do. You are an amazing woman, with a clever brain and strong heart, someone who learned how to make her way in the world and do so with style. I admire you. I admired you before I loved you, and I love you completely.” He crouched forward to stroke her hair with his other hand. “Don’t give up on me now.”  
“Come here, Sherlock,” Irene said softly. She patted the bed next to her. “Curl up with me and tell me a story. One of your cases, perhaps.”  
He slid in next to her, curling around on his side to hold her. “John’s better at telling those stories. But there is one he hasn’t gotten around to telling yet. About the melting laptop.”  
…  
Christine took one last listen and look at Elena Holmes, and cleared them to go home.  
“It’s time,” she said. “I’ll want to see you in one week. I’ve got an appointment for you at 10 in my regular office.”  
John stepped forward, too. “These are the meds you need bring home with you. One of these in the morning with breakfast, and one of these in the evening before bed. Keep up the low sodium, no-caffeine diet. I’m sending home a sheet.” He handed the bag to Sherlock, who also had their overnight bag.   
Ellen patted the seat of the wheelchair. “In you get, Irene, for your trip downstairs.”  
“Mycroft sent a car,” Sherlock said. “And Mrs. Hudson’s all set for us back at Baker Street.”  
“Well, then, off we go.” Ellen pushed Irene’s chair into the hall and accessed the elevator, leading their parade down to the car. John saw them off. “I”m doing a rotation at Bart’s this morning. I’ll come by with Mary tonight for dinner--we’re bringing it, don’t worry--and a visit.”  
“I’d like that, John, thanks.” Irene allowed herself to be handed into the cab, and Sherlock followed.   
“Later, John. Thanks.” Sherlock waved as the cab drove off.  
He thought about her, his wife, as they made their way back to Baker Street. She really was a remarkable woman, he thought. Some of that reached his eyes as he looked at her, and Irene blushed. They held hands all the way home, and when they reached Baker Street, Sherlock shifted to her.   
“I plan to carry you across the threshold again, Mrs. Holmes,” he said. “And this time, there are no intruders. There will be nothing to mar this homecoming.”  
“As you say, Mr. Holmes,” Irene answered back, smiling her sparkling smile.  
Sherlock put the bag on the sidewalk, then lifted her out of the cab to the door, where Mrs. Hudson stood, smiling, waiting for them. She stepped aside as Sherlock carried his bride across the threshold, up the stairs, and straight into their bedroom. Mrs. Hudson followed with the light overnight bag, and bustled around Irene. “Let’s get those feet up, young lady. My! That baby’s grown in the last month! Why, you can actually see at a glance that you’re pregnant now! How wonderful! Want some tea?”  
Irene managed to nod as Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock settled everything else into the room. Sherlock stacked her mystery novels at her bedside table, and added a puzzle book with a new pen. He set up a small stereo system on the dresser, loaded with her favorites--including the Beatles and the Rolling Stones--and put her travel clothes in the hamper, her toiletries in the bathroom.  
“All right?” Sherlock asked as he smoothed and fluffed the pillows behind her.  
“Fine, Sherlock,” Irene said. “What about the security?”  
“They had time yesterday to wire the doors and windows. All that remains is for us to choose our keycodes--they’re personalized to each of us--and set the system. We can check any of the cameras at any time through our laptops. I thought that would be easier. We can keep one in here when the baby arrives so we can watch her.”   
Mrs. Hudson brought her tea, and Irene sipped it. “You know, Una, it’s wonderful to see you. I brought you a gift from France. Sherlock, will you get it for me?”  
He pulled out the brightly wrapped package and handed it to Mrs. Hudson. She unwrapped it to find a lovely silk scarf. “Oh, how nice. Now I’ll be all set for the theater.”  
“You might have to find another date, Una,” Irene said calmly. “I’m not allowed to do much at the moment.”  
“Oh, I’ll ask Mary, then,” Mrs. Hudson said. “She and I have bonded while you’re away. We’ll miss you, but I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”  
Sherlock sat on the bed next to Irene. “Mrs. Hudson, do you have everything set up in the kitchen that I asked for?”  
“Yes, of course, Sherlock, dear. Irene’s tea, the low-sodium biscuits, cheese, fruit. We have the low-sodium diet posted on the friggie.” Mrs. Hudson put her scarf around her neck. “Well, now you’ll want some privacy, I’m sure. Just ring down if you need anything.”  
“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.   
“Yes, thanks, Una. I know we’ve put you to some trouble this week,” Irene said.   
“Oh, it’s nothing, dear. I’ll be glad of the new security.” Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the room.   
Sherlock looked at Irene. “Home at last.”  
Irene held her hands out to him, and he took them. “In our own bed. Under orders not to use it for anything but sleeping.”  
He brought their hands to his lips. “We’ll manage. Would you like a bath?”  
Irene sighed deeply. “I’d love one.”  
Sherlock smiled at her. “I’ll go run one, and then I’ll help you with it.”  
“That is definitely not going to help my self-control.”  
“Ah, but you didn’t get a chance to talk to John, privately, this morning, either. I did.”  
Irene perked up. “What did he say?”  
“Well, I had him look at the tapes from my bathing of you yesterday morning, and he noted that your heart beat steadily throughout. No problems. He doesn’t seem to think arousal or orgasms are a problem. He agrees about penetration, at least until the bruising goes away, but he says there’s no reason we can’t find creative ways to enjoy each other without it.” Sherlock smirked. “If you’re interested.”  
“I am most definitely interested,” Irene said.   
“All right, then. I’ll run your bath. Stay put.” Sherlock rose and went into their bathroom, pulling their curtain aside and starting the water running for a warm bath. He added scented bubble bath, and as the tub filled, he took off his shirt and joined Irene in their room.  
“Now that’s a sight I’ve missed the past few days,” Irene sighed.   
Sherlock helped her stand up, then slid his hands under her shirt, lifting it off of her. He laid it gently on the bed, then reached behind her to unhook her bra, stripping it from her and laying it next to her shirt. She looked at him, coyly, as he slid his hands down her leggings, inside her panties, and pushed them down, kneeling in front of her to pull them off her feet, lifting one foot at a time to take them completely off. He rose again, and casually picked her up. He carried her into the bathroom, and helped her into the warm water. She breathed a deep sigh of relief at the sensation of heat that spread from her feet to the tops of her breasts. The globes of her breasts floated to the top of the water, and Sherlock reached in and turned off the water. Bubbles hid most of her form from him, but he knew what was there.  
Without saying a word, Sherlock picked up a washcloth, and started running it over her arms, under her arms, and over her body. He washed down her legs and feet, rinsed down the cloth, then moved to her neck, taking care with the cut at her neck, which was healing nicely.  
She hummed with pleasure as he took especial care to massage her swollen swollen breasts. “That feels amazing,” she said.  
He only smiled, and she felt the silence take on a heavy quality. Without talking, he was exciting her slowly, his hands running over her wet skin, making her want. He loosened her braid--the one he himself had plaited the day before--picked up her brush, and brushed through her hair, gently. Then Sherlock picked up the shampoo bottle and raised an eyebrow at her. She nodded.   
He gently tipped her back, wetting her hair from that in the tub, then massaging the shampoo into it. When her hair was lathered, he ran the warm water again, using a deep cup to rinse her hair with clean water. He set the cup aside, and then got another clean wash cloth, using her special facial cleanser to wash her face. As he finished, he set the cloth aside, then leaned in to kiss her. She responded to the gentleness in his kiss, her heart warming under it in the same way her body had warmed under his hands. She kissed him back, bringing her wet hands to his face and holding it to hers. The kiss deepened, and suddenly, they were devouring each other, angling for deeper penetration of tongues and teeth, bursting with need. They broke off suddenly, gasping for breath, and he leaned his forehead to hers.   
“You’re getting wet,” she whispered to him. He smiled, then stood, extending his hands to her to help her out of the tub. She rose, dripping, a mermaid with long hair covering her breasts, the small swollen belly offering mute testimony to her allure. Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and he picked up a towel from where he’d placed it on the floor, and began to rub her down with it, making her skin glow. He placed a mute kiss on her belly as he passed the towel over it, then rubbed each of her legs down, before standing back up and wrapping the towel around her head, turban style, to catch the drips in her hair. He stood before her, wearing only pants that bore quiet evidence to the effect she had on him. She smiled, a siren’s smile, and he picked her up, bearing her, naked, to their bed. He set her on her feet, then pulled their blankets back, and laid her down on the sheets. He took off his pants, and joined her, pulling a bottle of her favorite lotion out of the drawer in the table next to their bed. He palmed some, warming it in his hands before smoothing it over her arms, legs, and belly, avoiding her breasts and inner thighs.  
For now.  
He turned her on her right side, and smoothed the lotion down her back and buttocks, then over the bruised hip. She was healing fast, he noted in one corner of his brain, then rubbed the lotion into her shoulders.   
She felt heavy, contented, aroused. As he turned her back to her back, she looked at him from heavy eyes, content to see where he would take her next. She didn’t have long to wait, as she saw him produce a bottle of almond oil from the dresser. She smiled slowly at that, and sighed again as he warmed almond oil in his hands, then applied it to her breasts, massaging it in, then setting his mouth on them. He suckled gently at her engorged nipples, making her feel the connection between them and her center. She shivered with the pleasure of it, anticipation making her feel ripe. He lingered on her breasts, pleasing himself as well as her, savoring the taste of her warm skin. She began to move under him, feeling ready for him to do something, anything, to end the pleasurable torment. He lifted up, smiled at her again, then spread more oil over her lower belly and inner thighs, and her eyes rolled back into her head as he began to feed on her.   
He savored her skin, then moved into her, spreading her legs enough to bury his face between them, using his tongue to torment the sensitive nub at the top of her cleft, being careful not to penetrate her opening in any way. He held her hips with his hands, keeping them well away from her bruises, but making sure he didn’t have a hand anywhere near where he could penetrate her accidentally.   
She writhed, feeling tormented, feeling the pressure building in her lower belly as he relentlessly fed on her. Suddenly, she peaked, her hips leaving the bed as she exploded, and he continued to feed on her, sending her up again, and one more time, before kissed her center, and rose up, to kiss her lips, letting her taste as he kissed her deeply, and rolled to his back, breathing deeply.  
“Hydrogen,” he started. “Oxygen. Carbon. Iridium. Radium. Potassium.”  
Irene, who felt pleasantly melted, began to giggle.  
“Sodium. Iron. Gold. Mercury.”  
She rose from her side of the bed, coming around to curl up on her right side, facing him. His eyes were closed as he continued his recitation of the periodic table. She reached for the almond oil herself, warming it in her hands, then applied it to his penis. She didn’t think it would take long, so she snuggled into his shoulder and used her left hand to stroke him firmly, rubbing him rhythmically, holding him tightly, applying firm pressure to squeeze the slick skin.  
“Irene, God, oh, God.” He choked on his words as he exploded, spilling himself on his belly. He gasped for air, and she withdrew her hand, getting up again to get a wet washcloth. She cleaned him, then threw the washcloth in the hamper and lay back in bed, cuddling into him.  
“I wasn’t expecting that ending,” Sherlock murmured. “I meant to show you I could control myself.”  
“Oh, you did,” Irene assured him. “I am most impressed. But there was no reason to torture yourself with the periodic table when a few strokes with my hand could help you, er, release the pressure of that control.”  
He started laughing, deep in his chest. “I guess you showed me.”  
“I guess I did. And I feel amazing. I like John’s theory about endorphins, Sherlock. I truly do. I’m not faint at all, and I actually feel like I could run a marathon if I wasn’t supposed to stay in bed as much as possible.” Irene stretched into him, putting an arm across his chest and kissing his jaw, where she could reach it.  
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Sherlock said. He pulled her even closer to him, nuzzling her still-damp hair.   
…  
The days began to fly, blending into each other in their new routine. The security had been set up at Baker Street, with keypads at the main entrance and at each flat entrance, with an extra one on the baby’s bedroom door. Irene took charge of camera set up in the front hallway and the baby’s room, and the simple act of installing the security made both of them feel safer.   
Still, Irene never felt completely safe. She was realizing that she’d never felt completely safe in her life. The closest she came was tucked into Sherlock’s arms in their bed. She spent a great deal of time in bed in the week after her hospital stay. At her appointment with Christine, the ultrasound showed that the bruising had healed nicely, and as the cut on her neck healed, it was almost as if the incident of the intruder had never happened.  
Except it had. Every morning, Irene took a small pink pill with her breakfast; every night, it was a small blue one, along with her prenatal vitamin. The pills reminded them both that they needed to take care with her health.  
Christine cleared them for sexual activity, but told them to take it easy. They did pay attention, but appreciated the fact that they could continue to enjoy their status as newlyweds in the bedroom.  
As days blended into weeks, they settled into a pattern. Sherlock accepted or rejected private clients, blew things up in his basement laboratory, and spent his free time hanging out with his wife or with John, who often brought Mary over as company for Irene. Irene contacted her clients in Paris, explained her situation, and told them she’d be seeing clients in London. Some of them, seeing her more out of habit than need, simply wished her well and stopped seeing her. Others opted to keep seeing her, and her reputation as a sex therapist began to spread. She continued to screen clients carefully, meeting them first in Speedy’s Cafe before allowing them into Baker Street. Irene also became very choosy, accepting as clients only those she believed could be helped. She met them in Mrs. Hudson’s front room, where they were seated with a cup of tea and a smile by Mrs. Hudson before the lady herself disappeared.   
And Irene’s belly continued to grow.   
One night in mid April, Sherlock came up from his basement laboratory smelling of sulfur and some other substance Irene couldn’t define. She’d had no clients that day, and she’d spent the afternoon quietly reading one of the many mystery novels Sherlock supplied her with. Irene wrinkled her nose at his smell.  
“What have you been up to?” Irene asked, putting her book down and picking up a cup of her cooling raspberry tea.   
“I was burning rocks.” Sherlock walked casually into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of her tea, too. “I wanted to see if some rocks burned differently than others, and I was particularly having fun with manganese.”  
“Then why do you smell like sulfur?”   
“Oh, I burned some of that, too. Now I’m bored.”  
“Well, I suggest you finish your tea and take a shower. You smell terrible.” Irene smiled at him.  
“Yes, well, I suppose I ought. Thought I’m not sure the sulfur smell will dissipate completely.” He sat opposite her and sipped his tea. “What have you been up to, today?”  
Irene stretched a bit, her belly poking out so far, she could balance a cup of tea on it. Sherlock grinned at the sight.  
“Well,” she said, “I ordered the wallpaper for Elena’s room, and the crib and the matching dresser and changing table. She’ll be here in a month or so, and we really need to tackle the decor for her room.”  
“Enjoying yourself?”   
“Immensely.” Irene smiled back at him. “I ordered most of it from that posh store Una recommended. It will be delivered tomorrow, so unless you have a case, I’d love your help up there.”  
“Well, I’m finished with the rock burning, and I have nothing on just now, so I guess I’m all yours. It should be fun. Really.” Sherlock tried not to wince as he said so.  
Irene laughed, because he hadn’t fooled her one bit. “I just need your assistance getting the furniture in. I’ll handle the rest.” The cup on her belly rattled as Elena kicked her. “See, she wants you to help, too.”   
“Well, then, since both my girls are ganging up on me, what am I to do?” He finished his tea, then got up and leaned over Irene to kiss her. She held her nose as he kissed her cheek, then kissed her belly. “I guess that’s my cue to shower.”  
“Help me up first, will you? I’m ready to lay down for a bit.” Irene put her hands up, and with the ease of practice, Sherlock took them both and helped her out of the chair. Standing, her silhouette smoothed out, a bit, but at 33 weeks, Irene measured the perfect number of centimeters from belly button to spine, and that meant her belly popped out significantly indeed.   
Sherlock escorted his wife into their bedroom, and he casually stripped off, tossing his clothes into the hamper and the end of the bed and stepping into their bath. Irene made herself comfortable on their bed, curling around her belly on her left side, piling pillows under her head and putting another one between her knees for comfort. Elena was kicking again, playing her own version of football. Irene tried to encourage her to kick the left side, rather than the right, because the uterine scars, while stretching, seemed to almost be at their limits. She lifted her shirt to look at her right side, where the roping of the scars could now be seen under and against her skin, stretched out and thin, but there, nonetheless. She had a few stretch marks, too, but Sherlock’s regular application of lotions and oils to her belly--he really did have magic hands--had helped keep those down.   
She closed her eyes, listening to the water running in the bath. Two weeks to magic May, Irene thought. Two weeks until Elena would be grown enough to thrive well outside of her mother’s body. Irene hoped she’d make it. Sometimes, she thought Sherlock knew more than she did about her own condition. He probably did. He knew more about, well, anything, than anyone did.   
She also strongly suspected that he was keeping her from knowing the depths of his panic and worry over impending fatherhood. Just having a wife was a huge change from what he’d expected out of his life; adding a baby? How would he manage it?  
He could no longer be the self-centered detective in the funny hat. And to be fair, he’d come a long way in the last year. But part of him would always crave the game.  
Obviously.  
She smiled involuntarily, and started when she heard Sherlock’s rich voice in her ear. “Having sweet dreams?”  
Irene opened her eyes to see his inches from hers. He hadn’t joined her in bed, but he remained gloriously naked, leaning over her, looking like the sexy male beast she’d fallen for. She reached up to touch his face, smiled at him, then patted the bed next to her.   
He didn’t need to be asked twice, but lay on top of the covers with her, and placed his hands on her belly.  
“How are we doing today?” Sherlock massaged the belly lightly.  
“Well. She’s playing football again. I thought I’d lay on my side in the hope that she’d kick to the left.” Irene directed his hands to her scars. “See. You can see them now.”  
“That’s slightly worrying,” Sherlock said quietly. He touched them lightly; they seemed firm. Elena kicked him, and he grinned. “Sorry, dear one, just checking things out.”  
“I see sports classes in her future,” Irene said wearily.   
“Sports? Not chess?” Sherlock couldn’t stop grinning.   
“I imagine she’ll want both, Sherlock. As a Holmes, she’s no doubt brilliant at something. We’ll have to see what that is.” Irene closed her eyes again, and Sherlock kept massaging her belly, lightly, until the kicks subsided.  “I think she likes you. You put her to sleep. Thank you, darling.”  
Sherlock kissed her lightly. “Glad to help.” He rolled to his back next to her. “You know, we still haven’t picked a middle name for Elena,” he commented.  
“How about Sherlock?” Irene said, eyes still closed.   
“See, I can’t tell if you’re serious if your eyes are closed,” Sherlock complained. “Even after all this time.”  
“OK, half-serious. She’ll be a Holmes, obviously. And she has your mother’s name. She could have her own middle name. Something pretty. Or something royal. Wasn’t it once tradition to name children after the monarch?”   
“That would be Elena Elizabeth Holmes, or Elena Katherine Holmes, I suppose,” Sherlock said.  
“I like Elena Katherine,” Irene said, still drifting. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I’m falling asleep. She’s been kicking me so much I haven’t been sleeping well.”  
“It’s all right, Irene.” Sherlock turned to face her again, feathering his hand against her cheek. He kissed her forehead. “Sleep.”  
She mumbled something incoherently as he rolled off the bed and looked for pajama bottoms and his dressing gown. Decently clad, he walked out to their living area and picked up the paper.  
Bored.  
Very, very bored.  
Without even sex to distract him.  
Can’t shoot the revolver; Irene needs sleep. Can’t smoke; bad for the baby. Can’t do anything but wait for that baby to show up!!  
Restless energy filled him. He almost wished the baby furniture was here so he could set it up to have something to do.   
The buzzer rang downstairs.  
He flew down the stairs to answer it, and he found Lestrade on the other side.   
“Lestrade! What brings you? Tell me there’s a murder, please. I’m bored out of my mind,” Sherlock spit out as he gestured his friend inside.  
“Actually, I’ve got a bit of a puzzle for you, Sherlock; not a murder, but certainly something a bit out of the ordinary,” Lestrade said.   
The pair went upstairs, and Lestrade seated himself opposite Sherlock in front of the fireplace.   
“You know that NHS guy we’ve been keeping an eye on for you?”  
“Yes, Kevin Andrews.”  
“He seems to be missing. Never showed up for work this week. No one seems to know where he’s gone or what he’s up to. His tube pass, credit cards and other identification haven’t been used since Sunday. He’s probably dead, but there’s no sign of him anywhere. We’ve been over his home with a magnifying class. We saw nothing. His car’s still in the garage. He’s simply gone.”  
“Nothing’s ever that simple. He obviously got a ride from someone to somewhere and disappeared in route. Find the person who gave the ride and you’ll have someone to question.”  
“Well, obviously, but we’re a bit stuck on who that might have been. We’ve canvassed his friends and family; no one’s seen him, and as there was a family gathering on Sunday that he missed, the alibis are fairly tight. His coworkers seem to be glad to be rid of him, but they, too, have decent alibis for Sunday.”  
“Have you reviewed his appointment book? His work calendar?”  
“Not our first day on the job, Sherlock. Nothing’s down for Sunday. Not even the family gathering. That’s what’s so odd.”  
“Could simply be a death by misadventure. He might turn up somewhere, probably dead in a field or the Thames.”  
“Why did you want us to watch him, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock kept his face carefully blank. “I believed him to be a threat to my wife.”  
“Yeah, but it’s the nature of the threat, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. “You know that my wife is the former Irene Adler.”  
“Yes.”  
“Andrews was a client who got a bit aggressive, and she cut him off. When it became known that she was alive, well, and living in London, we became afraid that some of her former clients might be threats to her. Andrews was one we needed to keep an eye on.” Sherlock paused. “Are we suspects in his disappearance?”  
Lestrade shook his head. “No, if you decided to get rid of someone, we’d never know. That much I do know about you. But do you suppose Irene might have an idea about what happened? Do you suppose he might have moved on to another dominatrix?”  
Sherlock thought for a second. “Given what I know about him--and I’m sorry, Lestrade, but Irene’s very discreet, and only shared this with me because it was relevant at the time--I think it likely that he would look for another person to relieve his, er, urges. But Irene’s the real expert, both on that world and on that man. If she’s up to it.”  
Lestrade looked concerned. “Is she all right? She’s got to be close to due soon.”  
“Thirty-three weeks. We need to get to at least 36 weeks to feel safe about the baby’s development. She’s sleeping now, Lestrade. The baby’s been keeping her up. And I can’t let her get stressed.” Sherlock was firm on that point. “If I have to strap a heart monitor on her again, I’m going to be pissed.”  
“Well, we could use her input, Sherlock, and yours. Will you come and take a look at his flat? See if there’s something we didn’t catch? Maybe we can figure this out without involving her.”  
“Just let me change and leave her a note.”  
…  
No forced entry. Security reset correctly. No mud on floor. Neat freak. Sherlock focused in on the man’s home office. A neat freak, but there’s a slip of paper poking out of his top drawer. He pulled on a pair of gloves and opened the drawer. The paper actually was sticking out of small notebook. It had been hastily placed in the notebook and shut up in the drawer, which was why it was sticking out. Sherlock opened the note book and found lists of dates and times, with the last one being the previous Sunday at 2 p.m.  
“Bit excited, were you?” Sherlock murmured.  
The paper said, “New site.”  
All the notes appeared to be in Andrews’ own handwriting, the messy script characteristic of doctors. Clearly, the notebook was a private appointment book. Sherlock handed it to Lestrade. “Well, there’s your evidence that he had an appointment.” He handed him the slip of paper. “And that this appointment was at a new location.”  
Lestrade flipped through the notebook, noting that the dates went back several years. He stopped at a date four years back noting it had a date, time, and the letter I. “Sherlock, look.”  
“Probably Irene,” Sherlock said calmly. “But there’s no such identifier on more recent entries. It’s clearly his private diary. I don’t suppose he ever expected anyone to see it, but he was too much of a control freak not to record dates and times for those private appointments.” Sherlock looked up and around in the office, noting the bookcases and glass display shelves. He was looking for -- oh, yes, there it was-- the spot where a French foil saber would normally be kept. “You’ll want to look for some sort of an inventory of the house contents. Someone with this degree of obsessive compulsive disorder certainly has one. You might find information by going through the house and comparing it to the inventory.”  
“Right.” Lestrade looked around. “We’ll find it. Anything else you can tell me?”  
“Not at the moment.” Sherlock hesitated. “Do you trust me to interview Irene?”  
Lestrade looked back at him. “I do.”  
“I’ll do that, then, and I might have more for you afterward. She might have an idea of where he’d go for his new appointments.” Sherlock looked Lestrade dead in the eye. “But you need to treat her as a confidential source. My priority is keeping her and our child absolutely safe.”  
“Understood, Sherlock. Thanks.”  
Sherlock smiled quickly and went out the door.  
Back to Baker Street. To talk to his wife. Maybe he’d strap the heart monitor on her first.  
Just in case.  
…  
Irene woke slowly, still laying on her side. Elena seemed to be awake, but she wasn’t kicking her mother’s spleen, just splashing around a bit. It was dark outside, and Sherlock wasn’t in the room with her. She looked around, and she saw a note addressed to her sitting on top of the dresser, directly in her line of sight. Irene sat up slowly, picked it up, and read it.  
New case. Out with Lestrade. Back ASAP. Love you. S  
She rubbed her eyes, then rubbed her belly. Elena pressed back, and Irene smiled. “You brilliant, beautiful girl. Stay put.”  
Irene slowly got out of bed and waddled to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil, measuring tea leaves into the pot, and rummaging in the friggie for cheese. She couldn’t seem to get enough of the stuff. Her favored brie and camemberts were out for now, being unpasteurized, but they’d found an acceptable soft cheese that she loved to spread on slices of fresh bread. She also pulled out fruit.   
Her tea ready, Irene set up a small plate for herself at the table, eating lightly and sipping her raspberry tea. She’d become quite used to Sherlock being gone, into his lab, out at Bart’s, or simply in his own head. He always came back, though. And she was content with that.  
She was feeling a bit heavy, a bit tired, and more than a bit ready to meet their baby. She’d stopped scheduling clients for the next two months, and planned to take it very easy as they waited for Elena to arrive.   
Irene heard the downstairs door open and shut, along with the beeps that signaled Sherlock’s key code. “Sherlock?” Irene called to him. “I’m in the kitchen, having tea.”  
“Oh, good,” she heard him call back. “I’m starving.”  
Irene got up, dug out more bread, cheese and fruit, and added sliced hard salami to his plate. He came in as she placed his plate on the table and reached for a cup to pour him some of her tea.  
“New case?” Irene inquired.  
“Yes, and it’s one I’ll need to discuss with you, but let’s finish our tea first.” Sherlock bit into his salami with gusto, trying to disguise his nervousness about dealing with the subject.  
Irene wasn’t fooled, but she played along, sitting back down to sip her tea and spread more cheese on another slice of bread. “How’s Lestrade?”   
“Well, but he’s got a missing person who thinks ought to be found. I’d leave him lost, myself, but it seems he …” Sherlock stopped himself. “Do you want more tea? Let me get you more tea.”  
Irene let him get her more tea, and wondered when he’d stop beating around the bush and spit it out. His nervousness clued her in to the fact that he thought the topic would stress her or make her unhappy; therefore, it had something to do with her past. Lestrade had the top four list they’d given him in February; all on the list were accounted for, but judging by the speed at which Sherlock was babbling, one of them had either become a threat … or was missing.  
“Are we suspects, darling?” Irene asked, holding out her cup as he poured.  
Sherlock shut up and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I forget how clever you are.”  
“That won’t do, dear. Spit it out.”  
“It’s Andrews. He’s been missing since Sunday. I believe he’s dead, and I’ve narrowed it down to someone in your former profession.” Sherlock hesitated again. “Do you think that likely?”  
“If he’d progressed to the saber, in the hands of a less experienced dominatrix, he would be risking his life to a serious degree,” Irene said. “It requires a thorough knowledge of human anatomy and a deft touch with a sword.”  
“His saber was missing from the cabinet. I didn’t tell Lestrade.”  
“Whyever not?”  
“It wasn’t his business to know what you did, specifically, with the cretin who’s now missing. You’re listed in his private notebook. If it becomes relevant, we’ll say something.”  
Irene shook her head. “I appreciate your protecting my privacy, Sherlock, but I’m very much afraid that it is relevant.” She sipped her tea again, slowly, thinking. “There aren’t very many women in my former line of work who are capable of that kind of domination.”  
“Can you give names? Without endangering yourself?”  
She thought. “I was very much an independent contractor, Sherlock, but most women work with a procurer of some kind. The procurer takes a percentage of their profits.” Irene smiled coldly. “I didn’t like to share my profits. Though there were those who tried to make me see things their way.”  
“Who?”  
“The Beekeeper, for one. Might as well scream out, ‘Get your honeys here!’” She smiled without humor. “Miles O’Grady, a street pimp down in Soho. There might be others by now. You could start with them. They might know others. It’s a seedy world, Sherlock.”  
“I’ve been down those backstreets before, Woman. I’ll put feelers out with the homeless network, too.” He finished his tea. “Are you well here?”  
“Well enough, Sherlock.” She stood, clearing the table, and putting the dishes in the dishwasher she’d had installed. She hated doing dishes. But she stood there, at the counter, her hands resting on it, feeling Elena moving within her, and wondering why these things were so painful to talk about.  
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug, and leaning down to place a kiss on the back of her neck, raising goose flesh on her arms and sending a wave of pleasure down her body. “I’m sorry to have brought this back up. I know you’d prefer to bury it.”  
“Well, it’s a part of my past, isn’t it? It’s what helped make me..and led me to you. I can’t completely complain, Sherlock. We wouldn’t be standing here in this kitchen together, with your hot breath on my neck and our baby in my belly, if it weren’t for that past. So we’ll use it as we need it.” She turned in his arms, Elena providing a bumper between them, and took his face in her hands. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
He kissed her then, as she needed to be kissed, softly, gently, firmly. “I can still carry you,” he murmured. “Shall I?”  
“Yes, please,” Irene said, needing that contact with him. Sherlock picked her up, nuzzling her neck, and carried her into their bedroom, laying her on the bed and joining her there.   
They’d curtailed their sexual activity significantly in the past weeks, as Irene was often tired, and the baby had grown so much that she was often, ahem, in the way. But that didn’t erase the need for closeness, or for comfort. They lay face to face, and Sherlock curled up a little bit around the curve of her belly so he could reach her mouth and kiss her.  
She kissed him back, opening her mouth, offering a whisper of tongue as he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss spun out into a dream, the two of them exchanging soft feelings as they tasted each other. Sherlock put a hand under her jumper, pushing it up so that he could cup her swollen breast, gently stroking it. She hummed in pleasure, and encouraged, he started a firmer massage, slipping his hand under the cup of her bra to lightly trace her nipple with his thumb.   
She began unbuttoning the front of his shirt, flipping each button open with one practiced hand, so she could trace the contours of his naked chest in the way he liked. His answering growl let her know that he liked what she was doing. But he didn’t rush her. He let her decide what she wanted to do, and at what pace she wanted to do it.  
She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and broke off their kiss to sit up and take off her jumper and bra. He rolled her to her back and took her other breast into his mouth, suckling gently, massaging the other in a way he knew she liked. She hummed some more, then pulled his head up gently to kiss him again, full on the lips, while she reached down and unbuckled his belt, freeing him from his pants. He lifted off of the kiss to kick off his pants and boxers, and let her feel the length of him against her thigh. She sat up slightly to stroke him, then tipped him to his back so she could take him into her mouth, on her hands and knees, raised high enough from the bed that the baby wasn’t in the way. She washed his penis with her tongue, exciting him, then stopped and backed away. Holding his eyes with hers, she stood, stripping her leggings and panties off her body, then climbing back on top of him.  
He held her hands while she settled herself, then groaned as she guided him to her opening, straddling him, sheathing him fully. She began to rock, slowly, on top of him, a mother goddess exciting him to madness. Her breath quickened, but her pace did not, as she rocked herself to a climax. Her inner muscles clenched him as she came, and he let himself go.  
Irene couldn’t fold herself forward, but he held her up with his hands while her breathing slowed, and helped lift her off of him and roll on her side, facing him. He curled around to face her, too, and he kissed her again, gently. She held his face in her hands, memorizing the deep blue of his eyes, the blades of his cheekbones, the fullness of the lips that brought her such pleasure.  
He was hers. Truly hers.   
She kissed him again, and then rolled to her back.  
“If you’re going out after those two tonight, do me a favor and ring John, will you? I’d like you to have back up.” Irene didn’t look at him as she made the request.  
He squeezed her hand. “Alright. Get some sleep, Woman, if you can. Can I get you anything?”  
She shook her head no, then pulled the covers over her. He leaned over to kiss her, tucking her in, and got out of bed. It was shy of 8 p.m., but John would still be up. He called as he found clothes to wear--ripped jeans, ratty t-shirt, trainers--for a quick disguise to the underworld. John answered on the second ring.  
“Fancy a bit of sleuthing?” Sherlock asked him, hunting up a disreputable hoodie to go over the ensemble. “We’ll be slumming it a bit, and Irene wants me to have back up.”  
“Ah, sounds like fun. Bring the revolvers?”  
“Absolutely.”  
“I’m in.”  
“Meet me at Covent Garden, south entrance, in 20 minutes. It’ll take me that long to get there.”  
“Right.”  
“Tell Mary you’ll be late.”  
“Sherlock, whenever I go out with you, she expects me to be late.”  
“Smart woman, then, isn’t she, John? You lucked out there. See you soon.”  
They clicked off, and Sherlock turned to find Irene watching him. “See?” he said. “John will back me up.”  
“Be careful,” Irene said.   
“I will.” Sherlock finished his look with gray knitted scarf. “Do I look like myself?”  
“If you were a young man with a death wish looking for naughty sex, yes.”  
“Perfect.”  
…  
John met Sherlock, as requested, and gave him the once over, too. “What are you about, then, Sherlock?” John asked.   
Sherlock filled him in on the case and the deduction that Andrews likely was killed by an inexperienced sex worker. “We’re here to see if we can find one or both of two procurers Irene suggested--The Beekeeper, and Miles O’Brien.”  
“Like the Star Trek character?”  
Sherlock looked at him blankly. “Who?”  
“Never mind.” John bit back a grin. “So, how will we go about this?”  
“Ever solicit a prostitute?”  
“Er, no.”  
“Me either. Ought to be an interesting way to spend the evening.” Sherlock handed John a stack of twenties. “See if you can get any information out of them. You go that way; I’ll go this way. We’ll meet back here in one hour to check in.”  
“Right. I’m off.”  
They parted company, with Sherlock reflecting that perhaps Irene didn’t mean for him to separate from John … but it would be much easier to get information singly, and they could cover more ground this way.  
Sherlock put his head down, as if he didn’t want to attract attention, and carefully scouted through the crowds at the garden and in the surrounding streets. He counted twelve prostitutes before he saw one that was dressed up a bit more. Not standard. Some class. Probably a drug addict. A honey? He carefully approached her, palming a twenty-pound note to hand her. She took it, then nodded at a back corner of the alley behind her. He followed her in, and she said, hoarsely, “Twenty gets you a hand job. Forty a blow job. Sixty the full deal, with condom. Eighty and I might be able to fulfill a fantasy or two for you. What’chu want?”  
“Information. I’m looking for The Beekeeper. Or Miles O’Brien.”  
“You don’t need them,” she said, her eyes flicking back and forth. Needs a fix. “I can give you want you need.”  
Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle with a white powdered substance in it. “I can, too,” he said quietly, “if you can point me to either The Beekeeper or Miles O’Brien.”  
She looked at him, then at the bottle in his hand. “That real?”  
“Taste it.”  
She opened the top and stuck the nail of her little finger into the bottle, scooping up a tiny amount of the substance. She tasted, and her eyes widened. “That’s the good stuff.”  
Sherlock smiled without humor. “The Beekeeper, or Miles O’Brien, and you can have half. Both, and you can have it all. But take it easy with it. It’s enough to last awhile if you’re careful.”  
She licked her lips, eager for the next taste. “The Beekeeper’s got a hole over by the Tower. She conducts business in the McDonalds there at the guard station. Tall, black. Braids. Dresses classy, like a business lady. Has no time for us who work the streets. Only hires people who’ll do special clients. Miles, he’s no better, but he doesn’t class up what he’s doing. You can find him right back there in the garden, near the nymph statue.” She snorted. “Wears an eye patch. Some woman who didn’t want to play his way put a knife in his eye.”  
Sherlock thought he knew precisely who that woman might have been. “Thanks.” He handed her the bottle.  
“You know you could’ve gotten anything from me for this, right?”  
He shrugged. “Been where you’re standing. Sort of. Now I’m protecting my family. It’s worth it to me.”  
“Anything else you need, call on me. I’m Destiny.”  
“Thank you, Destiny.”  
He left the alley and made his way back to the entrance. He’d want John with him when they confronted O’Brien.  
…  
John did not fare well with his twenties, and, in fact, came up empty-handed when he met Sherlock.   
“Money’s not doing it tonight, Sherlock,” John said as he approached him.   
“Fortunately, drugs are,” Sherlock replied. “O’Brien’s in the garden. Let’s have a look there first.”  
“Did you just say--? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Where to?”  
“The nymph statue.”  
They matched paces at they hurried through the garden to the central nymph statue and the bullet-headed man standing there. He did wear an eye-patch, Sherlock noted, adorned with rhinestones. Huh.   
“Miles O’Brien?” Sherlock asked quietly.  
“Who’s asking?”  
“A potential client. I hear you can find someone who might be willing to … offer the unusual.”  
O’Brien gave Sherlock and John the once-over. “I’ve got a few males who might be willing for a threesome, for a price.”  
John rolled his eyes, exasperatedly. O’Brien saw it. “Oh, a female to share then? That’s a bit easier.”  
“How about a female to share who’s willing to, er, inflict a bit of pain?” Sherlock said, affecting shyness.  
“Oh, you want a paddling, do you?” O’Brien chuckled. “That’ll cost you, mate. I’ve one or two willing to do that, but they’re expensive. You got the scratch?”  
Sherlock risked flashing his roll of twenties, and put it back in his pocket.  
“What makes you think you’ll get out of the garden with that bank roll?” O’Brien asked congenially.   
John drew and cocked his revolver.  
“Aye, that’ll do it, then, won’t it?” O’Brien didn’t look perturbed in the least. He withdrew a phone from his pocket and dialed a number. “Sent Pretty and Doc over, would you? Think we might have new customers for them.” He clicked off and put the phone back in his pocket.  
“Now we wait?” Sherlock asked.  
“Yeah, not long. Have my girls working out of a house nearby. For an extra hundred quid, we can offer you a privacy room to do your business in. Saves being swept up by the coppers. Ah, here they are.”  
Two very healthy-looking young ladies approached them. “Pretty”--presumably the fair-haired young lady in the billowing pink skirt--looked more like she’d be willing to dance in the moonlight then paddle in a back alley. The other, “Doc,” had long dark hair, and wore a short, black leather tank dress. She looked more like the stereotype of a dominatrix.  
But more than that, “Doc” looked a lot like Irene, before her red hair.  
“That one,” Sherlock said, pointing to Doc.  
“Two-hundred pounds up front, three if you want the private room.”  
Sherlock counted off bills, handed them over, then offered his arm to Doc. She raised an eyebrow, but took it, gracefully leading he and John to a flat in a building just yards away. Pretty followed, but disappeared into an adjoining flat as Doc let them into hers.  
“Now, gentlemen, what shall we do tonight?” Doc purred as she looked them both over. Sherlock could see the calculation in her glance, the looking for new opportunities to fleece them both. He suppressed a shudder.  
“I think, Doc, we’ll have some information from you,” Sherlock said. John took a length of silken rope from a shelf nearby and tied her arms behind her back.  
“Playing this way will cost you a little more, boys,” Doc purred. Sherlock could almost hear her brain signal, “Ka-ching!”  
“Yes, well, John, is she secure?”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock paused a moment, looked at Doc, and said, “Kevin Andrews.”  
Doc recovered quickly, but it was too late. The name had meant something to her, and it was reflected in her posture, her face. Even the calculation had left for an instant.  
Replaced by fear.  
Sherlock settled back into one of the deeply upholstered chairs in the room. “I see you know the name.”  
“My job depends upon discretion, gentlemen. I can tell you nothing.”  
“Why don’t I tell you something instead?” Sherlock said pleasantly. “I know that he’s a very unpleasant man with a penchant for whips and swords, and that you know he went missing on Sunday. You very likely also know why he went missing and how he went missing. Tell me, where was the ‘new site’ at which you had him meet you?”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doc said stiffly.   
“Of course you do,” Sherlock sneered. “You were the bait, the lure to get him out of his office and to someplace unfamiliar, where he could meet his end. Tell me, was it an accident, or on purpose?”  
“What, are you cops?”  
“Not really,” Sherlock said.   
“Look, I didn’t kill him. I might know who did, though.”  
“Willing to talk to the cops about it?”  
“Not really,” she smirked.  
“Tell us instead. If we can, we’ll leave you out of it altogether,” Sherlock promised.  
“Seeing as I got bills to pay, I hope you do. Look, he liked me. He liked me to paddle him, then he wanted whippings, then he brought me this sword one night and said, cut me with it. Like I even knew how to handle a sword. I told him no, I couldn’t do that to him. But I knew someone who could. Someone who genuinely liked hurting men. He told me that he liked that kind of woman, asked me for a referral. She’s one of The Beekeeper’s.”  
“Who?”  
“She calls herself Daria. She works privately; she doesn’t work the streets. Based out of a flat on Northumberland Street. He was going to see her this weekend.” She paused, and started working the silken rope around her hands loose. “I guess he did.”  
…  
“Daria on Northumberland Street,” John said. “The plot thickens, eh?”  
“Yes. Someone who genuinely likes hurting men might cross the line and kill one. Or two. Time to phone Lestrade and put him on this scent.” Sherlock did so, briefly filling him in on their night’s adventures. Lestrade promised to track down Daria of Northumberland Street and see what he could find. Sherlock ended the call, then looked up at the sky as the pair trudged back to the garden entrance to find a cab. “Beautiful out here, isn’t it?”  
“Well, it’s 3 a.m. I should text Mary and be on my way home.”  
Sherlock looked puzzled for a second, before he relaxed and shook off the feeling of abandonment. “I’d forgotten for a moment that you don’t live at Baker Street anymore.”  
“You know where to find me when you need me, Sherlock. Tea tomorrow?”  
“Actually, can you come by earlier? Irene wants me to put baby furniture together in the nursery. I could do with some help.”  
“Which means I do the work and you do a chemistry experiment or something. No, thanks.”  
“You wound me, John.” Sherlock tried out the pout.   
“Ah, bugger it. If Irene needs the help, I’ll be there. Mary, too. Maybe it will keep her mind off babies for a while.”  
“Wants them, does she?”  
“Oh, yes. I’m trying to talk her into waiting until we’re at least married before we do anything about it, though.” John sighed. “She’ll be wanting to be over to take care of Elena for you all the time until she has one of her own.”  
Sherlock clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “Best to wait if you can. You’re the only one I’d tell this, John, but I’m scared shitless.”  
“Well, you hide it well. Been very mature, caring for Irene and all that. I’ve been impressed,” John said mildly. “And I know bloody well that your daughter already has you in the palm of her hand.”  
“Too true,” Sherlock said sadly. “I am now a domestic creature.”  
“Yeah, one that blows things up in the basement and goes out into seedy alleyways looking for prostitutes to talk to in the dead of night,” John rolled his eyes. “Very domestic.”  
“Shut up, John,” Sherlock said, laughing.  
They each grabbed separate cabs, and headed back to their respective homes.  
…  
When Irene woke the next morning, she found Sherlock in bed with her, snoring. Must have been successful last night, she thought, smiling to herself. She levered herself out of bed and headed for the loo, using the facilities, brushing her teeth, and brushing out her hair before braiding it back into one thick braid down her back. Quietly, she padded back into their bedroom and pulled out one of the maternity shirts she’d purchased online, a deep purple number with short sleeves. She pulled it on over her bra and a pair of lace maternity panties, then pulled on a pair of her ubiquitous leggings.  
It would be marvelous to go back to wearing pretty, fitted, stylish clothes again, she thought.  
Irene went into the kitchen, barefooted, and brewed her pot of raspberry tea. A paper bag on the table had a note on it: For my girls. Irene looked in the bag and found croissants, still warm from a bakery somewhere. Eagerly she pulled one out, munching as she took her tea to the living area to watch the morning news.  
“In crime news this morning, the body of Kevin Andrews, the late NHS Minister, was found early this morning in the flat of a known sex worker in Central London. James Wilson reports.”  
So Sherlock found him, and he’s dead. Irene didn’t know how to feel about that, and closed her eyes to see if her body could tell her what to feel.  
She felt relief.  
In fact, it washed through her.   
The last of her biggest threats was dead.  
And as she thought that, she laughed, and laughed. “He’s dead!” She practically screamed it.   
“Irene, Irene, what!?” Sherlock stumbled out of their room.  
“You found him. He’s dead.” Irene started crying, keening, the last connection to her sordid past severed cleanly, leaving relief in its place.  
She quite alarmed Sherlock with the uncharacteristic show of emotion. He dropped to his knees in front of her, and held her arms. “Irene, relax.” He rubbed her arms, trying to still her crying and rocking. “You’ll disturb the ba--”  
“OH!” She shouted, then clutched her belly. The muscles arched tensely, and as Sherlock quickly placed his hand on her, he felt the hard cramp that signaled a contraction. His eyes popped wide open, and he gently rubbed the belly as Irene starting panting, tears in her eyes as she tried to recall her birth training.  
As the contraction subsided, the pair of them stared at each other. “I’ll call Christine,” Sherlock said, rising.  
“I’ll … just stay here, I guess,” Irene said. She took a deep breath. “I don’t even have a hospital bag packed. We were going to set up a C-section date at tomorrow’s appointment. I’m only 33 weeks!”  
“Thirty-four,” Sherlock said calmly. “You hit thirty-four this morning.” He dialed. “Christine? Irene just had a contraction. Yes, I should say so. No, just the one so far. Time them? At five minutes apart, come in. Erm, aren’t we to do a c-section? Isn’t this too early? Really? She was already five pounds or so at the last appointment? So if she carries to term, Elena would be ...Wow. OK. I’ll call back if or when there’s another.” He clicked off. “Catch all that?”  
“Yes, I think so,” Irene said. “If I’m truly in labor, Christine wants to let it go because Elena’s big enough and she thinks we’ve stretched these scars as far as we can safely. And we’re to go in at five minutes apart. What about the C-section?”  
“She didn’t want you pushing against that scar tissue if it got any thinner, but thinks you might be able to deliver vaginally at this stage. She’ll check you at the hospital and make the decision then.”  
Irene took another deep breath. “Right, well, I’m going to pack a hospital bag. Oh, my goodness, the furniture will be here today!”  
“John and Mary are coming over to help with that, Irene. If we need to go to the hospital, I’m sure they’ll stay and finish up.” Sherlock felt like he was screaming on the inside, but decided he needed to keep things calm as long as possible.  
“Why don’t you give them a call?” Irene said. “After you help me up.” She extended her arms out and he pulled her out of the chair, making sure she was steady on her feet before taking out his phone again and ringing John.   
Irene made her way back to their bedroom, and she pulled out the small overnight bag they used the last time they were at the hospital. “I don’t even have the recommended list,” she muttered to herself, laying the bag out on the bed. In went Sherlock’s blue dressing gown, a second outfit to wear home, her toiletry kit. She knelt on the floor by the bed and pulled out a storage box. Inside, she’d tucked in the cute baby things she’d found on her many shopping excursions over the previous months. She selected three outfits, two blankets, and a stuffed animal, and looked up to find herself the target of Sherlock’s wrath.  
“What are you doing on the floor?” Sherlock stormed in.  
“Finding baby clothes for Elena for the hospital bag.” She shook them out briskly, then folded them. “We can’t bring her home naked. Oh, and I meant to get a bassinet for this room, thinking we won’t want her too far from us for the first few nights, anyway. Maybe I have time to order one and have it sent over.”  
“Woman, you need to be off the floor.”  
“I’m comfortable, Sherlock, really. Maybe you could bring me another croissant. I’m starving, and they won’t let me eat at the hospital if we get there today.”  
He stared at her, nonplussed, then turned around and tramped back to the kitchen, pouring out another cup of tea and taking another croissant out of the bag.  
“You are timing things, right?” Irene called out to him. “How long has it been?”  
Fifteen minutes. “Ages. Hours. You’re not really in labor.” He called back to her. “Just overreaction from recent stress.”  
“OH!” He heard her yell out. “WRONG!”  
He ran back into their room, throwing the food and cup on the dresser and practically falling on the floor to support her back as she panted through the contraction. He felt her belly under his hands, hard, cramped, and he rubbed it lightly, hoping it would soothe her. He whipped out his watch and hit the second hand, mentally adding 10 seconds to the number of seconds on it as her pants eased and the contraction dissipated.  
“Right,” Irene said calmly. “Rather not be on the floor for the next one. Did you hurt yourself getting here, darling?”  
Yes. Banged my elbow. “No, of course not.” He stood up, then reached down and lifted her to her feet. “Right, then, that was an adventure. Still want your croissant?”  
“Yes,” she said decisively. “Will you please go back into that storage box and take out the newborn diapers, wipes, and the burping cloth? We’ll need them. And I am going to go out on your laptop to order a bassinet, posthaste, with sheets, for this room. Oh, and there’s a diaper bag in there, too, darling. Please pick that out, too. We’ll pack it with Elena’s things.”  
Sherlock watched as Irene waddled out to the laptop in the living area, talking the whole way. Nerves. He realized he wasn’t the only one hiding the inner screaming. Still, best to be calm, right? He picked up what he believed was likely the diaper bag, a hot pink affair with multiple pockets. It already was stocked with diapers and wipes, so he assumed Irene had forgotten she’d done that. He added the little outfits Irene had picked out for their daughter, folded the blankets and placed them on top, then added the stuffed animal. To the other overnight bag, he added a set of his own pajamas and an extra outfit for himself, thinking it likely he’d be able to stay over with Irene, and knowing that wild horses couldn’t drag him away otherwise.  
She’d forgotten her croissant. Was that important?  
Sherlock picked up both bags and set them by the front door. Mrs. Hudson was vacationing in the Canary Islands, so no need to fill her in, just yet. She was scouting out new flats. John and Mary were on their way, and -- the buzzer went off.   
“I’ll just go down and see what that is.”  
“It’s probably the furniture, Sherlock. What do you think of this bassinet?” She turned the screen toward him.   
“It’s pink. Very pink. Is Elena the pink sort?”  
Irene smiled her sparkling smile at him. “We’ll know soon enough. Meanwhile, her mother likes pink, so there you go.”   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He raced down the stairs, checked the peep, and found a delivery driver there. He opened up, signed for the boxes, then sent them upstairs. “Why do we have to put the crib together? How am I supposed to do that?”  
“You’re the genius, darling. Figure it out,” Irene called down, hearing his complaint in the front hallway.  
Sherlock raced back up the stairs. “I’ll let John figure it out. I’m with you.” He checked his watch. 14 minutes and counting. Maybe there wouldn’t be another one --  
“OH!”  
He tripped over the carpet getting to her this time, and simply held her hand and rubbed her belly while she sat in the chair by the laptop, breathing. Closer together, still hard. At least Elena was giving them some time.  
The buzzer sounded again. Sherlock waited until the contraction had passed, stroked Irene’s hair, then went down to answer it.   
“John, I have never been so glad to see you, and that’s saying something,” Sherlock said, ushering them in and resetting the keypad. “I’ve baby furniture in your old room that needs to be put together, Irene’s contractions are now 14 minutes apart, and I keep tripping over things and banging my elbow.”  
“You poor man,” Mary said, holding back the grin that threatened to burst out of her at the great detective’s consternation. “I’ll just go check on Irene, shall I?” Mary ran up the stairs to sit with her.  
John clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Pull it together, Sherlock. Deep breaths.”  
“Maybe we should go earlier. Maybe we should go now. Maybe they’re not really contractions. Maybe it’s false labor. Maybe I should be committed to a random insane asylum for knocking up Irene Adler Holmes. Pick one of these statements and talk me out of it.”  
John was trying desperately not to laugh. “There’s no need to go earlier if Irene’s comfortable here. As for the insane asylum, I have thought about committing you on occasion, but I believe this is not one of them. You’re being perfectly rational for someone about to meet his daughter for the first time. And I can tell you easily enough if it’s false labor. Are the contractions getting closer together?”  
“Yes, barely.”  
“Are they hard contractions? Sometimes that doesn’t mean anything, but it can be useful.”  
“Yes--rigid. Her scarring shows through her skin.”  
John drew his eyebrows together. “I don’t like the sound of that, but I’ll have a look. Relax, Sherlock, if you can. You’re doing fine.”  
They went up the stairs together, and John pulled out the barely used heart monitor from the closet. He wheeled it over to Irene’s seat by the laptop--she and Mary were now adding sheets and baby clothes to the cart on screen--and quietly set it up. Irene protested a little at the finger monitor--it hampered her ability to click on things--but it eased her mind to know it was there. John added a monitor to the belly, one that also tracked contractions.   
Sherlock looked at his watch. Thirteen minutes and-- “OH!”  
“She’s winding up,” Sherlock commented as he held his wife. Irene panted through the contraction, then sat back.   
John looked at the tapes and grinned. “Now look at that,” he said. “Heart rates are both strong and steady, contractions--and yes, they’re definitely contractions, look at this pressure here--strong and steady as well. Irene, would you like me to take a look and check your progress? Or do you want to wait for Christine?”  
Her eyes met Sherlock’s. “Wait, I think, for now.”  
“All right, then.” John looked around. “Who wants to play Cludo?”  
Mary laughed. “I’m in. Come on, Irene. Press submit and let’s get those things over here. Rush delivery.”  
“We have furniture to put together, too,” Sherlock said, stroking Irene’s hair.  
“Tell you what, you two, Mary and I will go up and put the furniture together. You hang on down here, and call up if you need something, right?” John watched the monitors for a moment more. “Things look good here. Just take it easy.”  
Sherlock nuzzled her neck. “Would you like to move to the sofa or the bedroom?”  
“Actually, I want to walk. Will you walk with me?”   
“Certainly.” He helped her up, and putting his arm around her waist, they slowly strolled through the flat, circling through the kitchen, their bedroom, the hallway, and the living room, rolling the monitors along. They could hear John and Mary, vaguely, arguing casually over the best way to set up the crib. Irene sort of wanted to see, but she couldn’t concentrate very well on it.   
Twelve minutes, and -- “OH!”  
Sherlock held her with his left arm at her back and his right hand massaging her belly as she blew through the contraction. As it finished, he glanced at his watch again to find that the contractions were getting longer--and closer together. “Sure you don’t want John to take a wee peek?” he asked.  
Irene wilted a bit against him. “That one was really hard, Sherlock. I think maybe we do need him to look.”  
“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted up.   
John raced down the stairs. “Yeah?”  
“Harder, longer, stronger, and Irene wants you to check her.”  
“Got it.  Let’s have a lie-down, Mrs. Holmes,” John smiled at her, and Sherlock escorted her to their bedroom, helping her lie on the bed. She was wearing leggings, and Sherlock helped her push them and her panties far enough down that John could get a good look at her progress. John washed his hands and snapped on a pair of gloves from his med kit. He slid a hand into Irene, measuring with his fingertips, then stepping back.  
“Five centimeters, 50 percent effaced,” John said. “You’re going to be going into transition labor soon. I know you’re not at five minutes yet, but--”  
“OH DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN SHERLOCK YOU BASTARD!”  
Sherlock paled as another contraction seized Irene, coming just eight minutes after the last one.  
“I think you should go now.” John stripped his gloves and helped steady Irene’s legs while she breathed through the contraction. As it eased, he left Sherlock to help her put her pants back on.  
“She’s progressing rather quickly. The roping of the scars is holding up, but I’d like to see her get to the hospital sooner rather than later. Call Christine and tell her I said so while I go let Mary know what’s happening.” John clapped Sherlock on the shoulder again and went upstairs.  
Sherlock stood there, gulping like a fish, watching his wife close her eyes and breathe. He shook it off, and called Christine. “Eight minutes, but John’s here … 5 centimeters, 50 percent effaced ...heart rates are steady … yes. We’re on our way to Regions third floor.”  
“That’s not maternity,” Irene said calmly.  
“Mycroft’s doing. He’s got a standing order in for you to be admitted to the third floor if necessary.” Sherlock absently texted his brother. Niece is on her way. SH  
“Christine’s arranged for your nurses to be maternity nurses. Elena will stay in your room with you. Did you say you were breastfeeding?”  
“At least for the first few months, yes. I want her to have a healthy immune system.”  
“We’ll get a lactation specialist in, too,” Sherlock said, busily texting.  
“Look at you,” Irene said. “Did you even know what that was before today?”  
“Yes. I’m not always blowing stuff up in my lab. Sometimes I actually do research.”  
Irene laughed, then paled again. “Here it comes, Sherlock.” She reached for his hand. He set down his phone and gave her his left hand, using the right to massage the hard cramp of the belly. “Tell me if this hurts you.”  
“It doesn’t,” Irene managed to choke out as she breathed through a hard contraction. Six minutes.   
“We have got to go, Irene.” Sherlock called a taxi, and was promised one within five minutes. “There are days I wish we had a car.”  
He helped Irene back up, disconnected her from the monitors, put an arm around her waist, and helped her down the stairs, where he placed her on the bench in the front hall. John and Mary came down, and Mary told Irene not to worry about a thing; they’d have the nursery set up when they got back.  
Irene smiled at her, but she was completely absorbed in what her body was doing. She barely processed language now, except for Sherlock’s voice. She could hear that, and then, “OH, Sherlock, I NEED YOU.”  
Instantly, she was in his arms, and he was massaging her belly. “We’ve got to go NOW.”  
“Good thing the cab’s here then,” John was saying as he led them out the door. Sherlock handed her into the cab and slid in next to her. John passed them their bags, and the cabbie took off for Regions.  
The cabbie, not interested in having a baby arrive in his cab, made it to the hospital in under three minutes. He also waived the money Sherlock tried to throw at him. “Nope, nothing doing, mate. Firm policy. Good luck and happy baby.”  
“Ta,” Sherlock said, and he helped his wife out of the car. She made it two steps before another contraction hit. He swung her up and through the hospital doors. “Irene Holmes. Dr. Christine Baker is on her way. We’re to be on the third floor.”  
“Yes, right away, Mr. Holmes.” The nurse hustled out from behind the welcome desk. “Let’s get you a wheel chair.”  
“No,” Irene said firmly, processing that getting in a wheel chair would take her away from Sherlock.  
“You heard her.” Sherlock started striding toward the elevator. “I’ve got her. Let’s go.”  
They zoomed up to the third floor and down the hall to the same room Irene used last time. As they entered it, Sherlock noticed that it had been refurbished slightly. A warming bassinet sat in a corner, monitoring equipment was ready to pop on, and a counter had been set up with a scale, heat lamp and warming trays. The bed was different, too, equipped with stirrups for her feet so she could push, if Christine determined that was safe. Sherlock’s cot was already set up under the window, six feet from her bed and out of the way, and a rocking chair sat next to it.  
He understood this in a matter of seconds, and brought Irene over to the bed. “Sit, love,” he said gently. She gripped his hand, looked into his eyes, and squeezed it, hard. “Another one, Sherlock,” she whispered, and began to pant again.   
Sherlock held her through it, thinking that this transition thing was going very, very quickly. Christine pushed through the door as Irene breathed more easily again, and Sherlock nearly kissed her in his relief to see her.  
“Let’s see, Irene,” Christine said quietly. “Into a gown with you.”  
Together, Sherlock and Christine helped Irene off with her clothes and into a soft pink gown. Two nurses came in, and an administrator stopped in with bracelets for both of them. “These identify you as parents here,” he told them. “This will be your daughter’s matching bracelet, so that we have all three of you together. Of course, with this secure arrangement here, it’s probably not as necessary, but it’s hospital policy and another layer of security.”   
Sherlock said not a word as a pink plastic bracelet labeled “Baby Holmes Father” was snapped onto his wrist with a wrench. It would have to be cut off. They were placing Irene’s on her wrist when she snapped up and reached for his hand.   
“Out!” Christine told the administrator, who bowed graciously on his way out the door. As the contraction built, Christine placed Irene’s heels in the stirrups and felt her inside. Irene started swearing at her, but Christine assured her it was necessary. “Wow. Nine centimeters, 90 percent effaced. You’re very symmetrical, Irene.” The contraction was easing, but her stomach was taut enough that Christine could see the lines of the scars through her skin. “Hmmm. These don’t look bad.” She ran a hand along the scars. “They’re holding up. Want to try a normal delivery? It looks like you’re galloping to a finish now, Irene. It would be better for your body if we could try it--and I have a surgical team prepped in the operating room just down the hall if we need it.”  
Irene answered Christine, but looked at Sherlock. “I really want to try, if you think it’s safe.”   
“As she says, doctor,” Sherlock said quietly. He leaned down and kissed her.   
“None of that!” Christine said briskly. “That’s how you got here in the first place.”  
They laughed together as another contraction hit. Irene breathed through it. “We’re at two minutes apart now, doctor,” Sherlock commented.  
“Almost go time, Sherlock.” Christine checked to see all her equipment was ready to go. One of the nurses in the room ran out for clean, warm towels and a plastic sheet. They lifted Irene from the bed slightly to set up the plastic sheet, with warm towels over it, under Irene’s pelvis. She’d just settled back in when another contraction hit. “I’ll check again, Irene, when this one’s over.” Irene just breathed through it, holding Sherlock’s hand, allowing him to massage her as the contraction eased.  
Christine set her back in the stirrups and looked. “Look at that,” she said. “We’re ready to go. Irene, let your body tell you what to do. With the next contraction, you should feel a tug in your lower belly. That’s your signal to push. If you don’t feel the tug, don’t push yet. Just let your body do its thing.”  
Sherlock got behind Irene in the bed, supporting her back as the next contraction hit. She cried out. “It’s tugging, it’s tugging!”   
“Push, Irene. Push.”  
Irene bore down, and the sensation wasn’t unpleasant at all. It felt good to be doing something productive. She held the push to a count of 10, then relaxed as the contraction eased. “Good job, Irene.” Christine checked the position of the baby. “She’s right where she needs to be.” As another contraction hit, Irene felt that tug again, and she bore down once more, yelling with the joy and pain of it.  
“Wow, she really wants out,” Christine said. “I can see her head. She’s crowning. Let’s give us another push when you’re ready.”  
Sherlock grasped Irene’s shoulders, holding her, feeling helpless as she fought to bring their child into the world. Another contraction hit, and he held her tightly as she bore down again. This time she screamed, and it sounded for all the world like she was having an orgasm. He ought to know.  
As she screamed, Christine smiled. “Here’s her head. Hold on, Irene. Just pant through the next contraction. Don’t push if you can help it. I want to suction out her mouth and nose.” Christine did that quickly. “Once more, then.”  
With a mighty effort, Irene bore down hard with the next contraction, and Elena Katherine Holmes popped into the world, screaming her wee lungs out.  
…  
Five pounds 6 oz. 17 inches long. Apgar of 8. Elena Katherine Holmes. SH  
John whooped for joy and showed Mary the text. She whooped with him, and they danced in Elena’s nursery, where they had just finished putting together her dresser.  
Mary leaned into him, and he kissed her. “Next one’s ours, alright?” John asked.  
“Absolutely, Dr. Watson.”  
…  
Five pounds 6 oz. 17 inches long. Apgar of 8. Elena Katherine Holmes. SH  
Small, Mycroft thought, but not too small for a preemie. Apgar rather high for a preemie, as well. Mycroft smiled. Mummy would be pleased.  
Must remember to send flowers.  
…  
Five pounds 6 oz. 17 inches long. Apgar of 8. Elena Katherine Holmes. SH  
Lestrade grinned. Who said Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be a detective and a family man?  
It looked like the great man was becoming a good one.  
…  
Five pounds 6 oz. 17 inches long. Apgar of 8. Elena Katherine Holmes. SH  
Mrs. Hudson nearly choked on her tea. “Oh, I missed it! Well, if they think they’re going to get out of letting me have my hands on that baby, they’re sadly mistaken.”  
“You’re going back to Baker Street, aren’t you?” Her sister smiled. “You’ll want to spoil Sherlock’s baby girl.”  
“Of course I will,” Mrs. Hudson said. And smiled herself.  
…  
Five pounds 6 oz. 17 inches long. Apgar of 8. Elena Katherine Holmes. SH  
Molly Hooper smiled at the news. She was glad for him.  
Maybe it was time to find new love somewhere else.  
…  
Sherlock held his baby girl for the first time, and tears came to his eyes as he studied her.  
She was perfect.  
She had ten fingers, and ten toes. She had amazingly blue eyes--they said that might go away, but since both her parents had amazing blue eyes, he rather doubted it--and a full head of dark hair. Elena looked at him solemnly, as if he had all the answers in the world, and she needed to study him to get them all.  
Irene slept. Bearing children was hard work. Her uterus was shrinking back down with help from the maternity nurses, and the scars were settling back into place. She’d done it. She’d carried their child to a safe developmental stage without dying.  
Sherlock settled into the room’s rocking chair with his daughter, rocking her while she studied him.  
Holding her as she fell asleep.  
…  
End of Part III  
  
  



End file.
